It's a Thin Line
by JenF
Summary: “What’s up with you?” “Nothing,” he sighs and you know it’s not ‘nothing’. ‘Nothing’ doesn’t sit there flipping beer mats. You just raise your eyebrows at him, sceptically. Just a very short, concluding chapter.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: The Winchester boys don't belong to me. I wish they did but then I guess we all do. I just like to get them out to play from time to time. I always put them back safely.**

* * *

It's been a long drive. You're not sure, but you think Sam's been asleep for the last 100 miles at least. There's a motel sign up on the left that you think says 'vacancies' so you pull over and park. Sam stirs and blinks once, twice, three times before looking around blearily. You look at him fondly and wish for the hundredth time that things had worked out differently for him. You? You're in this for the long run, have been since you were four years old, but Sammy...

So here you are, in the parking lot of another crummy motel in another crummy backwater town in the middle of nowhere and Sam's looking at you expectantly.

"I'll go get us a room," you say. "You can go find me some coffee." Honestly though, you'd rather have something stronger but it's going to be an early start in the morning, even though you could both do with some time out. Just a day or two. But restless spirits don't take vacations so you'll just have to plough on. Maybe when this one is dealt with there'll be time to see a few sights, have a little r 'n' r.

You pull yourself back from your thoughts. Sam's already unfolding his absurdly long legs and climbing out of the car and you think you ought to follow suit. The freezing night air hits you like a torrent of ice water and if you were considering sleeping the wind has blown those thoughts away like tissues in a hurricane.

By the time you've checked in – well actually Christopher Hinde has checked in – Sam is standing patiently by the side of the Impala gazing at the stars. He's got the bags out of the trunk but is otherwise empty handed. You suppose that even he has his limits when it comes to searching out caffeine at two in the morning. Maybe you'll get lucky and there'll be coffee in the room but looking at the tatty exterior of the motel you doubt it. You're used to this by now – haven't ever really known anything else. Except that time when you were nearly 13 and Dad decided to stay in one place for nearly a year. You smile every time you think of that long, hot summer when you and Sammy got to be real kids for a while.

You push open the door to room 112, not looking over your shoulder but knowing Sam is right behind you anyway. You flick the switch and close your eyes briefly against the harsh light. You move into the room, checking for dangers, checking where all possible exit and entry points are, just like it's been drummed into you until it became second nature. You'd bet your life that behind you Sam is doing the same thing. Once you're satisfied you'll be safe enough here, you turn around and fling your bag on the bed, staking your claim. Sam has already positioned himself on the edge of the coffee table, elbows on knees, head in hands. You can feel the exhaustion pulsing off him in waves and you know that the only thing you'll be doing for the next 6 hours is sleep. You collapse onto your bed and are surprised by the softness of the pillow – it might even be a real feather one but it's been so long since you felt one of those you could easily be mistaken.

"Go ahead, Sam." you say, waving in the general direction of the bathroom. Sam grunts in reply and you hear him shuffle off. Throwing your arm over your eyes you feel yourself drifting toward sleep.

When you open your eyes it's light outside. The wind has died down and you realise you never made it to the bathroom last night. You look over to Sam's bed only to realise he's already at the table by the window, tapping away on his laptop.

"Hey," he says, "wondered if you were gonna wake up today. I got coffee." He waves toward the bedside table between the two beds and you wonder how you missed that blissful aroma. You push yourself upright and take a deep breath.

"What time is it?" you ask.

"Nearly 10." Sam smiles at you. "I'd have woken you earlier but you sounded as though you were enjoying yourself." Actually he's not smiling, he's smirking. You look for something to throw at him but come up with nothing. You decide to rise above it and hide yourself in your coffee. Change the subject.

"What've you got?"

Sam turns back to the computer. He knows he's won this round. "Not much yet. Two suicides in the last three weeks. Both young men in their mid twenties. No apparent links to each other although they did look alike."

"Could actually be suicides y'know, Sam. It does happen." You get up. The call of nature is getting stronger. And you've driven over three hundred miles and slept in the same clothes. It's getting tacky.

"Could be," Sam agrees, "except that they committed suicide doing something they were terrified of." He's piqued your interest now but you've really got to take care of business. You don't realise you're hopping from foot to foot till Sam looks at you and grins.

"Go," he says, "before you have an accident." And you don't need to be told twice.

Twenty minutes later and you're ready to hit the road. Sam has a list of people to talk to and places to visit. Damn, but he's good at research. You grab a bite to eat on the way out to Melinda Sewell's place. Her boyfriend, Martin Davenport, topped himself just last week. Jumped off a two hundred foot cliff into a quarry. Interesting choice for someone suffering from a fear of heights. Sam doesn't believe he'd have gotten within 10 feet of the cliff edge without freaking out, let alone near enough to throw himself over.

Melinda turns out to be a frumpy, middle aged housewife and you wonder how she ended up with a toyboy. You leave the talking to Sam because he's so much better with grieving women. It's something to do with empathy you think, but by the time she's let you in her house she's putty in his hands. As you're leaving you get the horrible feeling that she's going to try to hug Sam. Maybe that's how she got Martin you muse – just hugged him once and never let go. She doesn't though. Or maybe Sam just manages to fend her off without her noticing what he's doing. Either way you're back in the car and heading out to the next victim's address, waiting for Sam to recap Melinda's story for you. He always does that. Whether he does it for him or you doesn't really matter, he just does.

"So, Martin was just your average Joe. Went to work in the morning, came home at night, liked a few beers, took Melinda out for dinner once in a while and went bowling once a week at the alley a few towns over. Nothing to set him apart from anyone else in this town."

Doesn't sound to you like Martin was going to light any fires anytime soon. "Was he suicidal?" you ask, just to be sure.

"No, far from it. They were ecstatically happy. Melinda isn't sure but she thinks he was going to propose this weekend." You just raise your eyebrows in question. Sam always knows what you're going to ask so sometimes you just do the eyebrow thing at him. "She found a receipt from the jeweller's store down by the river. It's her birthday on Sunday." He trails off as if it's the most logical explanation in the world. You struggle to get your head around it.

"But she's like 40 at least." You don't understand how the age gap could possibly work. Sam just looks at you as if you've grown two heads.

"There's nothing wrong with older women, Dean. Maybe if you stuck around long enough to actually get to know someone…." He trails off. You scratch your head, trying to think of the last time you made a connection with a woman other than the physical one.

By the time you reach your next destination you're still struggling to find a meaningful relationship in your life with a woman other than your mother. Sam's starting to look uneasy with the silence so you switch your attention back to the matter at hand.

Christine Rosenberg couldn't be more different to Melinda if she tried. She's in her mid twenties, a drop dead gorgeous, natural redhead with legs that go on forever and you wouldn't mind handling this one on your own. You have your own special brand of sympathy you pull out for occasions like these. You almost suggest that Sam take off, but you can see out of the corner of your eye that he's way ahead of you on this one. He's already got that look on his face. The one that says 'don't even think it'. You resign yourself to the fact that you won't be flying solo with Miss Rosenberg any time soon.

As soon as you ask about her recently dearly departed, her face dissolves into the perfection of grief, her beautiful green eyes reddening, tears flowing freely down her face.

"Callum was a saint," she sobs, pouring her heart into every word. "There's no reason on earth that he would kill himself." She's so into telling you how wonderful her fiancé was that she doesn't even question your credentials. She just wants to share those last few moments. You wonder how often her friends have had to hear this.

"I'm so sorry to bring all this up again Miss Rosenberg," Sam begins, "I know how painful this must be." And he does. Every time you find yourself in these situations you marvel at how well your brother copes with his own memories. You worry that one day it will all be too much for him. But not today, obviously. One day the dam may well burst but you're ready for that – hell, you're waiting for that.

Christine must sense some sort of kinship with Sam because she's looking at him with hope in her eyes now. What she's expecting him to do for her, you have no idea, but she's reaching out to him physically now. Her hand is fluttering around in the air, as though she wants to touch Sam but can't quite bring herself to take that final step. Her tears seem to be drying up as well now you come to think about it. Sam halts her flailing hand gently with his own and you raise your eyebrows at him quizzically. You're sure he knows what he's doing but sometimes…

"Can you tell us what happened that day please? If it's not too hard for you." He's softened his voice. She looks at their joined hands and smiles faintly, obviously lost in a memory.

"They said he killed himself," she tells you, "but there's no way he would have done _that_." She trails off with a shudder. Suddenly she turns her eyes on you as if you have all the answers. "Why would he? He hated water, he was terrified of it. Why would he drive his car into the river?!" She turns back to Sam and whispers "Why would he do that?" And neither of you have any answers.

She pulls her hand away from Sam and you notice the engagement ring she wears. It's big and sparkly. You're no expert but it looks pretty new to you. You have to ask, "How long had you been engaged?"

She sees where your question came from and gazes at the ring herself. "It's beautiful, isn't it? We bought it together, at Jaspers, three weeks ago." She looks at Sam. "I can't bring myself to take it off. It's like, if I keep it on then it doesn't seem so real, so final. You know?" You see Sam nodding in agreement and you wonder what he still has of Jessica's that keeps her real to him.

Another ten minutes and you're done with Christine. Sam leaves his number with her, just in case she needs to contact him, and you both head back to the Impala. You haven't really learned anything from her that you didn't already know from the newspapers. Except the fact they'd just got engaged – just like Melinda and Martin. Sliding into the driver's seat you look across at Sam.

"So," you start, "another recent engagement. That strike you as a bit too much of a coincidence?"

Sam's got that thoughtful look on his face. Yeah, he's seen the connection too and you'd bet that he's sifting through all that information in his head to see if he can find anything else he might have missed. You know the instant he finds it – his face has always been an open book to you. You can almost see the bulb above his head lighting up.

"Jaspers." He states.

"Okay, random."

"It was the jewellery store where Christine and Callum got her ring. It's down by the river." He looks at you as if that ought to mean something to you. It doesn't. Sam waits patiently for you to catch up with him and when he realizes he's going to be waiting awhile he lets out a little huff of exasperation. "Melinda's receipt came from the store by the river…"

Now you see what he's getting at. Not only were both couples recently engaged, they both frequented the same jeweller. You think it's time for some more research so you suggest heading back to the motel.

Night falls quicker than you realized. Sam's been stuck at that damn computer all afternoon and you need to get out. You've never been one for sitting around twiddling your thumbs. You're starting to fidget and Sam's going to get annoyed in a minute. You noticed a bar a couple of streets away and you wonder if you can get Sam out for a while. You could do with spending money – things have been a little tight recently – and you don't really want to go alone tonight. It's a small community and if things go south you'll want the backup.

"Hey Sam?" It's worth a try. Sam looks up at you distractedly.

"What?"

"Wanna hit town for a while? We could do with some cash."

Sam cocks his head to one side and studies you. It always makes you nervous when he looks at you like that, like you're some sort of bug on a microscope. Just when you think he's about to tell you where to go, he sighs and closes the laptop.

"I assume you have some place in mind." he states. You grin broadly at him.

"Sammy. When have I ever not known the best hangout in town?" You hold your hand up to ward off any retort he may have, because you both know he has plenty to choose from. You've already got your jacket on, methodically checking your pockets, gun tucked in your waistband, knife strapped to your ankle, wallet safely in your inside pocket. Sam heaves himself out of the chair he's been sitting in all afternoon, raising his arms high above his head, releasing the kinks in his spine and casts his eyes around the room looking for his own jacket and accessories. You're way ahead of him and waiting at the door, twirling your keys around your finger.

Finally Sam's good to go. The drive is short and silent. Neither of you have anything to say, both of you lost in your own quiet contemplation of the world. Every so often you glance in Sam's direction and every time he's sitting gazing out of the window. Sometimes you'd love to know what's going on inside his head.

The atmosphere inside the bar is stifling and thrilling . There are about two hundred people crammed into a space made for half that. Sam's face falls. You know he doesn't really want to be here so you get him a beer to appease him, to let him know you're grateful he's here.

It looks like there'll be easy pickings here. The pool table is over in the corner, shrouded in darkness as they always are in these places. The crowd gathered round it doesn't worry you. You nudge Sam in the arm and nod in the direction you're taking. It's too loud in here to talk without shouting and it's a little early in the evening for that. He raises his eyebrows and rolls his eyes as he acknowledges your intentions.

It doesn't take long for you to find a mark. A small man, round, open, honest face. You almost feel bad about taking him for $300 but needs must. When the game is finished, you think he still doesn't realize he's been taken for a ride.

As you push your way through the crowd back to Sam you can see that he's in deep conversation with the bartender. You can't help but grin. Maybe Sammy's hooked up for the night. It would do him good, he's been way too uptight recently.

Sidling up to him, you prod him surreptitiously in the back to announce your presence. You half expect him to ignore you or tell you to leave him the hell alone but he's always one for surprises. He turns to you with a wry smile.

"This is my brother – the one I was telling you about." He turns back to the bar and your eyes flit from him to the girl currently wiping down glasses with a dirty towel. The girl barely glances up to look at you and you feel almost offended that she doesn't take more of an interest in you.

"I still don't see why it's so important." She's clearly addressing Sam but your interest has been piqued.

"It would really help us ..." Sam trails off, expecting her to fall for his boyish charm. It nearly always works too. It looks like tonight is going to be no exception. The girl puts down her cloth and the glass she's been worrying. She calls to the guy at the other end of the bar that she's taking her break and leads you and Sam to a booth by the door.

She slides into the corner and, as if out of nowhere, three beers appear on the table. Sam just looks smug and he settles himself opposite her, leaving you no option other than to perch at the end of the table. You don't really mind because it gives you easy access to the rest of the bar, but you make a show of being put out nevertheless. Sam wouldn't expect anything less.

"So, Marnie, please just tell us what you heard." Sam could charm the back legs off a donkey with those eyes and you know that Marnie is falling for it. Her face, originally sharp and harsh, has softened and, as she lifts her beer, she smiles at your brother invitingly. You wonder if you'll be the one heading back to the motel alone tonight.

"I used to work down at Jaspers, back in the days of old Mr Durrant. He was a real sweetie, didn't mind if I was late or if my hair was too bright. Real gem of a guy. When he died though, the shop passed on to his son. That guy couldn't organize his way out of a paper bag and the shop went downhill. Of course, he blamed it all on me. He spent most of his time trying to get into my pants and when I was having any of it he found the first excuse he could to get rid of me. He badmouthed me all over town till the only job I could get was here." She twirls her beer around in the glass and raises her eyes flirtatiously at Sammy. "Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for the work but a girl has ambitions, y'know?"

It's not really a question and you're wondering where, if anywhere, this is going. You think that Marnie is lucky to have a job at all looking at the amount of make up painted on her face. You suppose underneath it all she might be considered attractive, if not beautiful, but there doesn't seem to be an awful lot going on upstairs. You know for a fact that Sam is way out of her league but, what the hell, the boy has needs so, whatever. Sam nods at her encouragingly and looks at you. She throws you a dirty look as if you're intruding.

"Anyway, seems I'm not the only he did it to."

"Did what?" You don't really care but you feel the need to assert yourself in this conversation. She looks at you as if you just crawled out from under a rock and you respond in typical Dean Winchester style – you give her the biggest, brightest smile you can muster.

"Badmouthed." You hear the underlying 'd'uh' in her voice but choose to ignore it for the minute. You can tell that you and she are never going to get along. "Davey badmouths everyone he can't get on with and, trust me, that's pretty much everyone who's ever worked for him." Her eyes are back on Sam so you sit back and let him run with this one.

"Who else did he do this to?" Sam asks. He's sitting forward slightly, looking Marnie straight in the eye.

"Charlie." You gotta love those one word answers. She's sits back as if that's solved all your problems.

"Charlie?"

"Charlie Harrison. He worked down at Jaspers for about three months before I got fired. Nice guy. Terrible what happened to him…" She trails off, lost in thought. Sam looks at you as if she's imparted some dreadfully significant information but you don't see it and just shrug at him.

"So, Marnie, what exactly did happen to Charlie?" You're getting bored of this conversation, bored of Marnie but Sam thinks this is important so you'll go with it for a bit longer. She can make doe eyes at your brother on her own time, you have more pressing things to be getting on with.

She leans across the table toward Sam, revealing her more of her cleavage than you'd ever want to see. Sam averts his eyes and you think it's cute how his cheeks seem a little more flushed than they were a second ago.

"He killed himself," she whispers, conspiratorially, "right before his wedding. Turns out his fiancée came by the store to get her wedding ring sized and Davey, being Davey, laid it on real thick with her and she fell for it. Hook, line and sinker. Charlie found them in the back office. Never got over it."

"How did he die, Marnie?" Sam asks her, carefully keeping his eyes on her face, never looking lower than her nose.

"He gassed himself in his car. Shut himself in the garage, locked the car, turned on the engine and that was that." Marnie sits back, satisfied with her storytelling abilities. "And d'you know the funniest thing about that?" If she's waiting for an answer she's going to be there a long time. She looks from Sam to you and back again.

"Charlie Harrison was claustrophobic."

Sam looks at you as if that's a significant fact. You look back at him, bemused. You're starting to see the dots but you think Sam's already joining them together. You turn your dazzling smile on Marnie again.

"Thank you, Marnie, you've been a great help." You rise from the booth and look expectantly at Sam. He smiles a winning smile as he slides along the bench to where you're standing. You feel a little sorry for the girl when she realizes that Sam's not staying. You throw her a bone.

"If you think of anything else, we'll be in town for a while." You have to hide a smirk as Sam hustles you out of the bar.

"So," Sam starts, as the Impala purrs to life, and you know he's already got a theory. "I'm thinking that Charlie was the start of all this." You're inclined to agree with him, for now anyway, but you're still hazy on some of the details.

"But is he our first victim or our ghost?" you wonder.

Sam sighs and shrugs his shoulders. It's been a long day and you're both more than ready to hit the sack.

"Could be either," he admits and you can tell it's bugging him. You know more research is on the cards but it'll have to wait till morning.

The parking lot is virtually deserted and, after a cursory check, you're happy. As you cross the short distance from the car to your room though, a shiver makes its way down your spine. You stop so abruptly that Sam careens straight into you, almost causing you to lose your balance.

"What?" he demands, as you spin round. You're on high alert but other than the shadows cast by the moonlight, there's nothing to be seen. You were raised better than that, though. You know things lurk in the shadows, things that are undetectable by the human eye. Your hand is at the small of your back, fingers curling comfortably round the butt of the gun resting there. Sam's cottoned on and followed suit. But even with two pairs of eyes there's nothing to be seen. Maybe you're just overtired. Sam is right by your side and you feel him relax.

"There's nothing out there, dude," he says and despite the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, you're forced to agree with him.

You double check the salt lines before you fall into bed anyway.

Morning brings sunshine and the smell of fresh coffee. Sam's been up, probably for hours, if he slept at all. These days you've stopped counting how many nightmares he has each night. You wish you could help him but until he's ready to let you in, there's nothing you can do. He knows you're there for him but some things even you won't push.

You grunt and roll over on your side. The foreboding you felt last night is still hanging on to the edges of your mind but the familiarity of Sam sitting at the window, laptop open, tapping away, dulls any worry to a minor irritation. You reach over to the nightstand to grab your coffee which Sam has left by the bedside, as always. He knows you don't really function till you've had at least two cups. It's lukewarm but it's better than nothing and it's a supersize container so that should tide you through till you hit a diner later on today.

Sam realizes you're back in the land of the living and launches straight into what he's been up to all night. As you watch him expounding on his theory you get a warm, fuzzy feeling, a totally un-Dean like feeling. He's excited about what he's found and he wants to share it with you like a preschooler showing Mom his first story. Sometimes, when it's like this, you can almost forget your circumstances, forget that Dad is missing, that Sammy has lost so much, that you're desperately lonely despite appearances. This is living in the moment.

"Charlie Harrison lived over on Dover Street. It's a mostly middle class area. His parents moved here from Ohio when Charlie was 12, he went through the local schools, an average student. Graduated six years ago and went straight into the family business. His father died four years later and Charlie didn't have the ability or the wish to keep the business afloat. It went under after about six months. Which is when Charlie ended up at Jaspers."

You settle yourself back, savouring the rich aroma of the caffeine and listening intently to Sam's spiel. You know that he could summarise it for you in about half the time you both know he's actually going to take but he's enjoying this. He's always been a bit of a show off. You realise your attention has drifted as Sam huffs and raises an eyebrow at you. It's a fairly safe assumption he's just asked you a question and you wonder what you should answer that won't piss him off too much. But it doesn't matter – he's caught you anyway and just carries on as if nothing had happened. It can't have been that important.

"He met his fiancée, Alice McLeod, at about the same time. Everyone thought they were the perfect couple and the engagement didn't come as a surprise to anyone. And then he took her down to Jaspers to buy and ring. According to his mother that's when the relationship took a nosedive."

"I'm guessing that's when she met our man Davey." You need to show Sam you are listening. The truth is you've been listening so hard your coffee is stone cold and undrinkable. Sam nods and slams the laptop closed. He looks you in the eye.

"I think it's time to pay a visit to Jaspers."

Breakfast is a hurried affair. The diner is small and crowded and you recognise many of the patrons from the bar last night. In the back of your mind you hope you don't run into your mark from the pool table. You still feel a little bad about that and that's uncharacteristic of you. Somehow that worries you even more. You've not quite been able to shake the feeling that someone, or something, is watching you. Even though you were extra vigilant this morning and you know you're prepared for anything, you're unsettled for no apparent reason. Sam seems to be blissfully unaware of this and you'd like to keep it that way. For all you know you just had a bad pint last night.

Sam takes even less time than you to finish off his pancakes and coffee. The waitress eyes you hopefully and at another time you might be interested. As soon as Sam slams down his empty cup, you're up out of the booth, throwing down enough bills to cover the cost of breakfast. Sam watches you curiously.

"You're in a hurry," he observes wryly. You shrug. Yeah, it might seem that way to Sam but for some reason you suddenly just have to get out of that diner. Maybe it was the way the old guy in the corner kept staring at you or maybe you're just overreacting but something was off in that diner and you're happy to be out of there.

It turns out that Jaspers is an average jewellery store. There's plenty of stock to attract the lower end of the spending scale and just enough to keep the discerning clients interested. You haven't quite got your story worked out when Sam walks into the store with a goofy smile on his face. You really hope he knows what he doing because you so don't want to walk out of there betrothed to your own brother. The way he turns and beckons you to follow him doesn't bode well for you. You glare at him and turn to browse the display cabinets.

Out of the corner of your eye you see a man approach Sam with a fake smile plastered on his face. You find it interesting how he makes a beeline for your brother and not you. He obviously thinks Sam is the big spender. You shuffle your way over towards them so you're in hearing distance. If Sam is going to spin a story involving you then you need to know what it is.

"Can I help you, sir?" he practically oozes over Sam and you only just suppress a grin as you notice Sam take an involuntary step back. He's wearing a name tag that proclaims him to be David Durrant, the one and only Davey you've heard so much about.

"Well, you see," Sam stutters convincingly, casting a glance at you over his shoulder. You freeze at the look in his eyes. He isn't? He wouldn't? Oh god, you think he probably is. "We're looking for something special. Something unique and … personal." That's it. It's official. You're going to kill him as soon as you get out of here.

Davey has turned his look on you now. You give him a sheepish grin while shooting daggers at your brother. He's giving you a fairly obvious once over and, what the hell? He's smirking at you. He's making no effort at hiding what he's thinking. He's obviously decided that Sam can do better than you and in some warped way you find this highly offensive.

"Has Sir thought about what he'd like?" He's turned his attention back to Sam. You really think you should listen to this, after all it's your supposed lovelife they're discussing, but you catch a glimpse of movement behind the counter and suddenly you've got more pressing matters to deal with. You think you can see dark eyes watching you and it's unnerved you, This is what you felt back at the parking lot last night and again briefly this morning. You move round to Sam's side, trying to see further inside the backroom and you don't even realise your hand is making its way to your gun until you feel Sam's hand wrap around your wrist. They're both looking at you, one with cleverly disguise concern, the other with open disdain.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't mean to be so long." Sam's covering for you. He turns back to Davey who turns his smile back on like a light switch. "I think we'll have to come back later. Dean's not been too well recently." He moves his hand from your wrist until it rests on your shoulder, for all the world a lover's touch. You try hard not to glare at him until you're on your own. You turn on your heel and stalk out of the shop. You hear Sam apologising to Davey for your behaviour but you can't bring yourself to care.

You're back in the Impala with the music on, hard and loud, before Sam's even through the shop door. He eases himself into the passenger and you can feel the tension in him.

"What the hell was that, Sam?" you demand. "You wanna give me a heads up next time you pull a stunt like that." Now you've had time to think about it, you're pissed. Pissed at Sam for coming up with that story and, perversely, pissed at Davey for displaying such a predatory attitude. Sam just looks at you. You think he might be about to apologise but he doesn't.

"Think about it, Dean. All our victims had just got engaged and all of them got their rings from Jaspers."

"And…"

"And we don't know anyone here to get engaged to."

"Sam." Okay, so that came out as a bit of a whine. "Couldn't we have done it another way?"

"I don't think so, Dean. Whatever is attracting this ghost to it's victims, it's got something to do with that store. And so far all the victims have been recently engaged couples. Look, I know this isn't the way you want to do this and neither would I, but I don't see another option. Do you?" he pauses, whether he's looking for your approval or waiting for it to sink in, you're not sure. Either way you have to admit he does have a point, however much you hate it.

"So, what do we do next?" you enquire. "We still don't know who our ghost is. We're assuming it's Charlie, but we don't know for sure. Unless you've got something else tucked up your sleeve there, Sammyboy." You know you're being snarky but after the morning you've just had, you really can't bring yourself to care that much.

Sam decides to change the subject altogether. "What did you see in there?"

You're not sure now. When you were in there you were convinced that those eyes belonged to something supernatural, but now, out here in the daylight, you're not so sure. Maybe you're a bit hyped up and the eyes you saw were merely those of a lowly assistant or, heaven forbid, an accountant stuck in the back office. But the feeling was there and you've learnt from bitter experience not to ignore those feelings.

"Eyes." You turn your gaze to the road stretching out in front of you. You notice for the first time that the trees are just starting to turn and that fall is on its way. You also notice that Sam isn't laughing at you. He's learnt to trust your instincts too. "I saw eyes, Sam."

"Huh," he says, with an air of finality. "Eyes." And that, you guess, is the end of the conversation.

You're not really sure where to go from here. Sam has spun his freaky tale and you still don't know who your ghost is. If Sam's right, and he normally is, the spirit will find you now. You think a bar sounds good right about now but Sam, always looking out for you, decides a diner is a better bet. You acquiesce graciously, the idea of hot, strong caffeine appealing to you just as much.

* * *

**tbc**


	2. Chapter 2

The diner Sam chooses is one you've not been to before. He wanted to head back to the place you went this morning but you can't shake the feeling that there's something off about it. You can't put it into words but that's okay by Sam – he's always trusted your instincts, even when you have your doubts.

Turns out, strong coffee is what's needed to help you forgive Sam enough to consider your position with a level head. Sam is plugged into the internet. God knows where he's getting a signal from, but he's happy for now. He's back to researching something or other – whether it's the store, or Charlie or something else entirely you don't know or care. You don't feel anything watching you and there doesn't seem to be much to do for the moment, other than kick back and chill for a bit. Sammy's always called it his thinking time.

As you watch him over the rim of your mug you see him frown, eyebrows trying to meet in the middle of his brow, and screw his nose up the way he does when he finds something he prefers he hadn't.

"What?" you ask. He shakes his head slightly and drags his eyes away from the screen.

"Charlie was cremated." He couldn't look more despondent if he tried. "He probably isn't our ghost."

You ponder this new piece of information. "So, who is then?"

"Could be anybody, Dean." Any minute now you expect Sam to throw his hands in the air and huff dramatically. To give him his credit, he doesn't do that.

"But it all started when Charlie died. Don't you think that's a bit of a coincidence, Sam?"

Clearly he does, and the look on his face says it all.

"But if there are no remains…" he trails off into a frustrated silence that's not like him at all. It reminds you too much of those days after Jessica, when he couldn't understand anything for a time. It's a time you don't want to dwell on any more than he does.

You need to pull him out of this quickly, before you lose any connection with him. You know from past experience that when he broods on things it can take an atom bomb to rouse him. Or you nearly dying. That normally gets him going again but it's a method you'd rather not resort to.

"Maybe someone else died before him and we just missed it?" you offer, although you know Sammy's research is the best in the business. He doesn't miss the minutia so there's no way he's going to miss something as huge as another suicide in this town. But it's got him thinking, so you can relax again.

"There's one person we have missed," he announces, after a moment's thought. "Charlie's fiancée. We talked to the others, we should talk to her. Maybe she knows something, or maybe we missed something about Charlie."

You think it's clutching at straws but you've got no better ideas so you may as well go with it for now. Sam's already folding up the laptop and rooting through his pockets for some bills to settle up. You sigh and follow suit, gracefully sliding out from your seat and swinging the keys to the Impala around your forefinger in a way you know gets the girls looking. Shame there aren't many here to appreciate your talents.

Sam already has the address in his head. You've always prided yourself on being able to find your way to anywhere, from anywhere, so between you it takes just 20 minutes to get to Alice McLeod's home. She lives in a typical suburban street that gives you the shivers to just look at. All the front lawns are so neatly mowed you wouldn't be surprised if someone checks them each Sunday with a ruler. The mailboxes are a uniform blue and the front doors are, without exception, white oak. You couldn't bear to live like this and don't understand how anyone else can. Your upbringing was unconventional, travelling from town to town, transferring schools more often than you changed your socks, making enemies and breaking hearts in so many places that you're never quite sure what reception you're going to get in any one place. But Mr and Mrs Suburbia? Forget it. You'll take Dad's way of life over this any day.

Sam pulls you from your thoughts with a quick, directed glare. He knows how to keep you on track when you need it. You shrug and grin, watching as he knocks on the door, falling into a well worn routine. When the door opens, you're not sure there's anyone behind it but Sam doesn't dive for cover or reach for his gun so you guess there must be someone there. He looks back at you for a brief second and you wonder what story he's going to pull this time. Belatedly, you wish you'd discussed a cover on the way over. After all, look what happened last time.

"Miss McLeod?" Sam is the picture of professionalism as he smiles at the young woman standing in front of him. Sam dwarfs her but you reckon that's not that hard. She's one of the smallest people you've come across in a long time. She eyes him nervously before turning her gaze on you. You give her a reassuring smile that normally has the girls fighting for a front row seat. She just looks blank and turns back to your brother.

"Yes?" If a dormouse could take human form, this is what it would be, you decide. Her voice fits her tiny frame perfectly. You wish you knew what Charlie looked like. You want to picture them as a couple. Mentally shaking the vision away, you wait for Sam to continue. When the pause becomes a little too long, a little too uncomfortable, you look at Sam. He's transfixed by this woman and by the look of her, she knows it. You suddenly decide that she's presenting you with an image, a persona she shows the world. You'd like to bet there's a lot more going on there than she cares to show.

"My name is Sam, this is my partner, Dean," he waves a hand in your general direction and you feel your blood pressure rising again. If he thinks you're going to go through with this ridiculous charade he seems to be intent on playing out, well, he's got another thing coming. He gives Alice a meaningful look and you make a note to talk to him about the tales he spins. "I wonder if we could talk to you for a few minutes."

"What about?" she's suspicious and you don't blame her. Sam's given her no reason to let you in. He turns on that smile of his and you swear you can pinpoint the second she decides he's not a threat to her.

"David Durrant gave us your name…said you had a piece of jewellery commissioned from him," he pauses just long enough to seem sincere. "I want to get something really special and he suggested that we take a look at some of his work."

Alice gives you a long, hard stare and to your amazement, she steps back, pulling door with her, and invites you both into the house. As you pass her, you feel a chill in your bones and it's all you can do not to stop and stare her down. Sam carries on as though nothing has happened, and maybe it didn't. Maybe it's that imagination of yours again.

The hallway is bright and airy, uncluttered and, in your opinion, completely sterile. You could be in any show home, in any town. This house could be home to Martha Stewart it's so completely lacking in originality and personality. Alice directs you silently into the sitting room and Sam literally sinks into a grand couch under the bay window. You can't quite hide a smirk as he loses his balance and his feet leave the ground. He sees you though and glares at you. If looks could kill, Sammy would be the next Jackal. You decide to learn from his mistake and opt for standing casually by the door.

Sam regains his composure so quickly you wonder if Alice even noticed the incident. You let him get on with business while you use the time to examine the room and its owner in detail. You're beginning to build on your first impressions of the woman. Whilst there's no denying she's a tiny girl, you don't think she's as fragile as she looks. When she looks at Sam it's so intense you half expect him to burst into flames. When she looks at you, the cold steel in her irises makes you shudder involuntarily. You notice she flicks her long, auburn hair out of her eyes a lot and wonder if it's a nervous habit or if she's using it to attract attention.

Her choice of living accommodation is simple. It's clean, tidy and white. You don't know how anyone can live with such a total lack of colour in their life but then you haven't seen the rest of the house. Yet. You start fidgeting, shifting slightly from one foot to the other. Sam casts a glance your way and tilts his head the way he does when he's asking a question. You simply raise your eyebrows at him and nod imperceptibly at the door. He barely acknowledges the gesture, but it's enough of a sign for you to know he's got the message. He knows what you're up to. Just when you think you're going to have to drop a heavier hint, Alice notices you.

"Up the stairs, on the right," she answers to your request for the bathroom. You don't need to go but now you've got a valid reason for leaving the sitting room and scoping the rest of the place. It's amazing what you can learn about a person from the rooms they don't invite you into. You know you have to be quick though, so you limit yourself to the bedroom.

It's a typical bedroom. White walls, white linen, white furniture, even a white carpet. You're beginning to think there's some sort of compulsive disorder lurking in this house. Who the hell has white carpets? You glance down quickly to ensure you're not traipsing dirt all over the floor. Luckily it's been dry for the last few days so you've not had the time to get your boots muddy.

Alice's dressing table is as neat and ordered as the rest of her house, and presumably, her life. Her jewellery box is precisely placed in the top left hand corner, her make up box is symmetrically placed in the opposite corner. You're not going to open the make up but its partner in crime is crying out to be explored. Pausing only to check that you can still hear Sam and Alice conversing, you quickly cross the room and open the box. There's the ring that Sam claims you've come to view, along with three or four simple gold chains and a couple of charms. Sitting next to a row of earrings is a silver locket. It looks like an antique, a family heirloom maybe, but before you have time to really check it out you hear voices moving nearer to the base of the stairs. You hastily replace everything where it was and make your exit to the bathroom.

You flush the toilet and run the taps so that Alice thinks you've been in there all along. You time your exit as Alice enters her room and hurry down the stairs. Sam is standing in the sitting room now and you wonder if he fared any better getting off the couch than he did sitting down on it. He's looking at photos on the bookshelves and doesn't notice you coming into the room. You make it all the way to his shoulder before he realises you're there.

"She's gone to get the ring," he tells you simply.

"Yeah, I saw." You take in the photos he's so engrossed with. There are a couple of family portraits but mostly they're shots from outings and parties. Alice is in a few and you guess the gangly young man with her in those is Charlie. You point at the nearest one.

"Found out anything?"

Whatever Sam is going to tell you is going to have to wait because Alice has reappeared in the doorway. She gives you a funny look and you suddenly worry that she knows what you were doing upstairs. The moment is gone so quickly though, you wonder if it ever happened. She walks past you as if you're inconsequential and hands a ring box to Sam. He takes it almost reverentially and you think he's playing this part a little too well for your liking. He turns it to the light, admiring the sparkling diamonds and sapphires.

"It's beautiful," he breathes, "it must be very special." And you swear you can see Alice melting at his words. You really ought to take lessons sometime in how he does that. You prefer the direct approach but you have admit, Sam gets results.

Sam fawns over the jewellery, making the right noises and going through the motions for another ten minutes and you think you're going to die of boredom before he's done. Finally you catch him making your goodbyes for you and you smile briefly at Alice as the pair of them pass you on the way out. Taking one last look at the room, you follow.

Back at the motel you're itching to find out what Sam has learnt from this morning's little outing. He's infuriatingly slow today. You remind yourself again why it is you went to get him from Stanford. He's getting coffee and is in no rush to share information with you. You think you're going to have to beat it out of him when he eventually turns to you with a purposeful look in his eyes. He hands you a steaming mug and settles himself opposite you, perching on the edge of his bed.

"Charlie was cremated." And there goes your best theory, flying out the window. You were so sure it was him but if there are no remains, then there's nothing to hold him here. "Alice had all his belongings sold or destroyed. There's nothing left to suggest he ever existed. Interesting thing though, she didn't seem to care. Whatever her deal was with Davey, Charlie didn't seem to enter her head once. He may have been besotted with her but, reading between the lines, I don't think she cared one way or the other about him." Sam shakes his head sadly. He can't imagine being with anyone without love. You don't want to disillusion him, not now, not so soon after Jessica, but you think Alice probably has it right. Charlie was just a lovestruck fool. No way you'll ever get caught going down that road. Not again, anyway.

You don't realise you've drained your mug while Sam's been talking. He takes it out of your hand and automatically refills it from the pot on the side he made earlier. He has his back to you and you watch him run his hands through his hair, pulling on it from time to time. He's always done that, ever since he was old enough to make his own hairstyle decisions and grow out the short crop that Dad was always so set on. Spinning round to you, he sighs in frustration.

"What do we do now, Dean?" he asks, as if you've got all the answers. You'd love to be able to tell him, you'd love for this to be a simple salt 'n' burn but it's looking less likely by the minute.

"I don't know, Sam. We've tracked down all the victims, right?" He nods in confirmation. "We've spoken to all the relevant parties, right?" He nods again. "Then we sit tight, and hope your little scam hits paydirt. If you're right, the spirit will come to us." Although, god knows, you'd hoped it would be a little less creepy than that. Not that you're scared of going head to head with the ghost but you don't want Sammy put at risk.

By the time dusk falls you've still not come up with an effective plan of action. The motel room is getting dark and, for the sake of Sammy's eyes, you stand to switch the lights on. The change in brightness makes him squint and he glares at you, demanding warning next time you do that. You just smile at him and shrug your shoulders to the accompaniment of your stomach rumbling. You grab your wallet and keys, and tell Sam you're going out for food.

The convenience store is small but has what you want. The ride out is quick and uneventful. As you pull back into the parking lot outside your room, you're concerned to note that the room is in total darkness. There's no sign of life within and your hackles are raised instantly. Vigilantly you make your way to the door and nudge it with your gun. It's still locked, just as you left it. That doesn't ease the worry, though. The only reason for Sam to have the lights off is if he's gone out and he wouldn't do that. He knows you were only going for dinner. You slide the room key out of your pocket and quietly slip it into the lock. Turning it slowly, you wince as the noise of the door opening sounds like a trumpet fanfare to you.

You ease your way into the room, night vision kicking in as second nature. You can't see anything out of the ordinary. Your duffle bag is where you left it, Sam's papers are lying on the table, your stale coffee mugs are sitting next to Sam's laptop. The only glaringly obvious problem with the room is it's distinct lack of Sam. Kicking the door closed with your heel, you hiss his name in the hope he's just gone to the bathroom.

The answering silence scares you more than the sudden drop in temperature. Coldness you can deal with, emptiness is harder to handle. And that's what you feel whenever Sam is missing. You're so focussed on finding your brother that you don't notice the mist behind you morphing into a figure. When you do spin round to face it, you're unprepared. You curse yourself for making such a rookie mistake but it's too late. The figure thrusts out an arm at an unnatural speed and before you know it, ice cold fingers are on your forehead and the pain is intense. You think any minute now your head is going to explode. The last time you felt anything near this was the time you'd gone a little too far with Amy Wallis and her dad wasn't best pleased. Neither was your dad when he found out and that's where the problem lay. The backhander he dealt you was a keeper. You don't think you ever made that mistake again. Amy, on the other hand… well, you heard she was a mom by the time she hit 15.

You're sure you can hear every beat of your heart crashing into your eardrums. The jazz band in your ears is matched only by the blinding white pinpricks of light behind your eyelids. You think Sam might be somewhere in the room but you can't see or hear anything other that your own pain and terror building slowly. You know you're breathing far too quickly, you know if you don't slow it down you're going to be in real trouble any minute now. At least you're conscious, for the moment, although the alternative is looking more and more attractive with every passing second.

Then, as suddenly as it started, the noise and pain stop. The fear remains for a little longer – you're too canny to be taken in by a lull in the storm. You manage to raise your head off the floor, vaguely wondering how you ended up on the carpet, and peel your eyes open. The headache you're expecting doesn't materialise and you know you should be grateful for that but you don't believe this is over yet. That would be too easy.

The motel room is untouched, unchanged. You were right – Sam is in the room but he's not going to be much help to you for a bit. He's lying on floor next to the wall, looking for all the world as though he's catching up on some much needed sleep. You know better though and the untidy position of his limbs tells you that he didn't lie himself down. You feel the first pangs of fury overtaking the fear in your heart. Something hurt Sammy and threw him where he's lying now. Nobody touches your brother like that and gets away with it. When you're back to yourself…

There's a hissing in your ears and as you pull yourself up off the floor, agonisingly slowly, words start to form at the edge of your consciousness. Leaning back against the wall next to Sam you concentrate real hard, trying to make some sense of the noise.

"He lied," it says, over and over and over again. "You're not special. He will hurt you."

If you only knew who 'he' was, you might be able to come up with a suitable retort to that. There are hundreds of people who've lied to you, hundreds who want to hurt you. Some have even succeeded. You'd like to narrow this down a bit. It might make things clearer. You're actually more concerned with whatever the hell is in your head. You're a private person and you're not keen on sharing with your brother, let alone some freak that decides to take up residence in your head. Without even asking.

Keeping a close eye on Sam, you ask yourself what he would do. What you would tell him to do if the tables were turned. Sam would try to gather more information, you know that. You should talk to it. You feel stupid talking to yourself but Sam is still out of it and he need never know. He doesn't need the worry of what's going on inside your head, he has enough to deal with. You settle back against the wall, all exits in view and Sam under constant scrutiny.

"Who lied to me?" you whisper. The hissing in your head is louder now, clearer and you plainly hear the answer. No pretending this is your imagination now.

"He did. Sam did. You're not special to him. He _will_ hurt you. They always do. They say they love you but first chance they get – bang! I can help you. You won't have to suffer the pain and humiliation. Not like I did. I can save you."

Well, duh! You don't think so. You don't need saving from Sam. You know who this is now, though. Charlie may be dead but he's far from gone. He's coming through loud and clear. And he's so far off the mark on this one you'd laugh but you don't want to piss him off. He is in your head after all.

"He wouldn't hurt me." And he wouldn't. You're so sure of that, never been more sure of anything in your life.

"They all think that," Charlie laughs in your head. He's getting stronger and the pressure behind your eyes is starting to build. You feel him prying into the deepest corners of your mind, poking his nose into places nobody gets to see. It's getting uncomfortable in more ways than one.

"Get out of my head," you spit at him. Suddenly there's a blinding light flashing through your skull and you can't help but clutch your head to stop it bursting into a thousand separate pieces. The accompanying pain is excruciating and you fall to your knees, crying out in pain. Through the haze you can feel Charlie's anger as he digs ice cold feelers into your brain.

"You lied to me!" he screams. "You both lied to me!" And if it wasn't hurting so much you'd probably laugh at that. Of course you lied! It's what you do, you and Sam, and although you can't recall having had a conversation with Charlie, the state your head is in right now, you could be wrong.

Your heart rate has speeded up again, the rapid thumping against your chest is back and you'll never complain about an ice cream headache again. Charlie is in every fragment of your mind now. You can feel him rifling through your memories, your emotions, your thoughts. You've never felt so violated in your life.

Then there's another sound, the sharp retort of a handgun and then it's raining in here. In your confusion it takes a minute or two to realise it's salt and that the pressure is gone from your head. There are two hands holding your shoulders but it's all you can do to keep breathing. You want to crawl under a table and die. You don't want Sam to see you like this but you guess it's too late – who else would have a salt-loaded gun in here? You feel as though you've run a thousand miles and you know the sweat running down the back of your neck wasn't caused by the heat in here.

Suddenly there's a coolness on your forehead and the relief it offers runs through you in waves. Your arms feel like lead as you try to raise them. There's a buzzing in your ears and those might be tears trying to escape from beneath your lashes. You know Sam's safe – you always know these things. He's here with you, a solid, reassuring presence.

It's been a frightening experience and you think the best thing to do now would be to pass out.

So you do.


	3. Chapter 3

Once upon a time you could sleep the sleep of the innocent. You don't really remember those days too well but sometimes you look back fondly and wonder what it would be like to dream like that again. You're trying to recapture that feeling now but there's a constant thumping at your shoulder and a noise in the background that's disrupting your efforts at sleep. Prising your eyes open you find Sam poking you gently and softly calling your name. You want to tell him to piss off but all that comes out is "mmmff". Sam laughs and you wonder if you made a joke or whether his translation is just that off.

"C'mon Dean, open your eyes." He's persistent, you have to give him credit for that. He's moved his hand from your shoulder and is brushing imaginary strands of hair from your forehead. You bat your hand at him but your arm feels like it weighs seven hundred pounds so you let it fall, useless, to your side. You crack open one eye, which you don't remember closing, and give him a lopsided glare.

"S'mmy?" you slur at him and he stills his hand, resting on your brow. You have to admit it feels good, it's cool and soothing.

"Hey, how you doing?" You think about that for a few minutes. Physically you've been better but you've also been a hell of a lot worse. You'll be up and about before breakfast and that qualifies as 'fine' in your book. Mentally though? You've just had a spook going through your every thought. You don't share your thoughts for a reason and the experience has left you shaken to the core. If you'd wanted anyone to know about that incident on the boat, you'd have told them. It's left you feeling sullied and insecure and you don't like those feelings. Logically you know there's nothing you could have done to prevent it, nothing you'd have done differently, but that doesn't stop you from playing 'what if'. What if you hadn't gone out for food? What if you'd noticed him before he got his hands on you? What if you'd managed to get a shot off? Just one? What if Sam hadn't been there to bail you out?

"Dean?" Sam's looking pensive again. You realise that you never answered his question.

"I'm good," you manage to slur out. At least you're coherent enough for Sam to understand you this time. He holds out three fingers and raises an eyebrow at you. You know this routine all too well.

"Three, Sammy. Dean Winchester. January 24th and no, I've no idea where we are."

Your answers seem to satisfy him and he rises up from your side. As if by magic a glass of water appears in your hand and Sam is passing over some pills. You try to glare at him – he knows how you feel about medication – but the effect is lost on him. Probably because you're still a little unfocussed. He pushes them on you and you have little choice but to accept. The water is an added relief and if it gets Sam out of your hair it's worth it.

Swallowing the pills, you get your first proper look at Sam since your little conversation with Charlie. With a pang of guilt you realise you haven't asked after his own wellbeing. It's such a natural thing to you now and it just goes to show how off your game you are at the moment for it not to have occurred to you before now. Watching him fuss about the room, you notice that he's favouring his right arm more than normal. His left arm is hanging limply by his side and it doesn't look natural to you.

"Hey, Sam?" Sam stops where he is. Freezes more like. Sign of a guilty conscience you always say. He obviously knows what you're about to ask and you can tell he's going to try and fob you off with some cock and bull story. "What's with your arm?"

"It's nothing," he stammers, refusing to look you in the eye. Suddenly that discarded newspaper is looking mighty interesting to him. You've known him for too long to be taken in by that answer and he should know you well enough by now to know that it just won't work on you anymore.

"Sam?" You'd probably sound more threatening if you weren't still two shades of pale yourself. Sam sighs and slowly turns to face you. You're not sure what you read in his eyes but you suddenly wonder if you're the only one who got to have a chat with Charlie tonight.

"It's nothing, Dean. Really." Doesn't seem like nothing to you though and you raise one eyebrow at him. Unfortunately it would appear that your brother is immune to that gesture nowadays. There was a time you could scare the pants off him with that look.

"Doesn't look like nothing. How come you're holding it funny?" You're like a dog with a bone here. The sooner Sammy realises that, the better for both of you. Your eyes are getting heavy but you know you won't sleep till you know what the deal is.

Sam huffs a little. "The ghost kinda threw me across the room," he admits, "but I'm okay. I think you must have interrupted it. I don't really remember much…" he trails off into silence.

"Did you hurt your head too?"

"I'm okay, Dean. Really. I'm more concerned about you. That ghost wasn't exactly Casper."

It suddenly hits you that Sam doesn't know it's Charlie. You flop back onto the bed, exhausted. Just before sleep claims you again, you manage to pass on that little piece of information to Sam.

When you wake again, sunlight is peering round the curtains, spilling into the motel room. As you claw your way back to the land of the living you're relieved to note the absence of pain in your head. You still feel defiled but you guess it's going to take more than a good night's sleep to get rid of that particular memento Charlie's left you with.

Sam is sitting by at the table, watching you. You guess he's been waiting for you to wake and it doesn't look as though he's had much sleep. You stretch, popping joints that have been long neglected. Scrubbing the back of your hand over your eyes, you peer blearily back at Sam. After a pause that's a little too long you wave towards the laptop sitting in front of him.

"What've you found?" You'd like to bet he's spent the night looking into Charlie's history in more depth. Now you know for sure it's him, Sam must have something to go on.

"Not much," Sam sighs, despondently. "Charlie doesn't seem to have made much of an impression on anything round here. I don't understand why he's still here. Or why he's targeting the victims he is." He stops and turns away from you. "I think maybe we should go visit his mom. She moved away after Charlie's dad died but we could be there in an hour. If you feel up to it?"

Hell, yeah, you feel up to it. You want to send this dude back to where he belongs. He's been through your head so it's kind of personal now for you. The fewer people, or things, who know what's in there, the better. You nod your head and swing your legs over the side of the bed.

Charlie's mom is living on a trailer park, quite similar to the ones you spent time on in your childhood. Glancing at Sam you can see his thoughts are going down the same highway as yours. Sam quickly finds the right trailer, adorned with garden gnomes and flower pots overflowing with greenery. He raps on the door and it's opened almost instantly, as though Mrs Harrison was waiting for you. Life hasn't been good to her and you wonder if it was always like this for her, or whether the loss of her husband had more than an emotional impact on her. It turns out that she's the spitting image of Alice and it creeps you out more than you would have thought. Charlie must have had some serious issues.

"Hi," Sam always has the right tone of voice. You've noticed it on more than one occasion and one day you might get the hang of it yourself. "My name is Sam. I was at school with Charlie." He hesitates and waves a hand around aimlessly as if he's searching for the right words. "I just heard and I wanted to say how sorry I am."

Her eyes soften at the mention of her son's name. She moves to one side to let you pass and although she eyes you curiously she doesn't query your presence. The trailer is untidy in a homely way. There are signs of neglect round the edges but it's clean and she obviously still has her pride if nothing else. Sam's in full flow and you find yourself tuning out, as you so often do in these situations. You catch the odd word, 'sorry' and 'good boy' and 'misunderstood'. The last one catches your attention and you have to stifle a laugh.

You think the shiver down your spine might be a residual effect of last night's discourse with the man in question, or it might be the way she's turned to you suddenly. Sam is looking at you too and, vaguely panicked, you wonder if you've been asked a question.

"I'm sorry," you find yourself apologising, "did you say something?"

"Dean? Are you okay?" Sam looks concerned and Mrs Harrison looks downright scared. She's staring at you with wide eyes and a slightly trembling mouth. And that's when you realise you've drawn your gun. You don't remember doing it but there it is, in your hand. Okay, so you haven't raised it, it's still pointing down and you haven't released the safety, but you've got it out and you didn't know you'd done it. Sam has stepped forward and taken hold of your wrist. He gently draws it up and pulls the gun out of your fingers.

"Dude?" he hisses in your ear. "What're you playing at?"

You look stupidly from the gun, to Sammy's face, to Mrs Harrison and back to Sam again. You shake your head in confusion.

"I don't know," you admit, your voice barely a whisper, "I don't know." You stumble backwards, not really knowing what you're doing. You know you have to get out of the trailer. Not because you're scaring Mrs Harrison, and probably Sammy too, but because there's a pressure building behind your eyes and you need to be out in the open. Sam' s looking worried so you plaster a false smile on your face.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Harrison. I'll go wait in the car." You turn to Sam. "I'll just be outside." He nods and watches you anxiously as you turn on your heel and make for the open air.

When you get outside you realise that Sam still has your gun. You wonder what he's telling Charlie's mother. You're not too bothered – you know that boy can spin a story with the best of them. But you are bothered that you didn't realise you'd drawn a weapon. You're even more bothered by the fact you don't know why you had it drawn. The pressure is gone from your head and you decide you'd be more comfortable with a weapon. You have your knife strapped to your ankle, you never go anywhere without that, but a gun has a certain solidity to it that you find comforting. You reflect on how screwed up your life is that your security blanket is a gun.

Taking the keys to the Impala out of your pocket, you make your way round to the trunk. Opening it in one swift move, glancing from left to right, you pull up the floor to reveal your stock of weapons. Running your fingers, almost lovingly, over the array of hardware revealed, you pause on the handgun lying there. You know it's loaded with iron bullets and if Charlie is about to show his face again this is the weapon you want by your side.

Stowing it in the back of your jeans, you close the trunk and turn to watch the door of the Harrison trailer. You pull yourself up on to the trunk, resting your feet on the bumper, careful not to mark it with dirt. Your senses are heightened but even so you don't notice the figure to the left until it's only a couple of metres away. There's no drop in temperature to warn you and the first you know of it is when the voice in your head pipes up.

"Hello again, Dean."

You slide off the car and whirl round to face it, gun aimed, but just as you're about to pull the trigger Charlie raises his ghostly hands in surrender.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he says. "I was trying to help you."

"Why do I find that hard to believe?" you snarl, tightening your finger on the gun. Just as you feel the mechanism start to engage, the weapon is pulled viciously out of your hand. The metal scrapes your fingertips and the stinging sensation distracts you just for a fraction. You watch incredulously as your only defence flies across the front yard and lands harmlessly in a hedge.

Charlie has moved and now he's right in front of you. You want to yell for Sam but Charlie's face has you captivated in all the wrong ways. There's a ball of ice in the pit of your stomach and it's not melting. You want to be far, far away from this spook. You try to put some distance between you but the Impala is at your back and there's no escape route there. Charlie's figure is solidifying. He's stronger here, and that means he's even more dangerous.

He lifts one hand, splays out his fingers and you duck your head to the left.

"Uh uh," you tell him. "You're not getting into my head again, you freak." If it were possible, you'd say Charlie looks hurt and rejected.

"But I just want to talk to you, Dean," he says.

"Well, do it from outside my head this time."

"But I need to know how you feel. Words mean nothing."

"You don't need to know anything. You _need_ to go away." He's moving his damn arm again and the car is stopping you from moving. What you need right now is for Sam to finish up his conversation and to get his ass out here to help you. You take a deep breath to yell for Sam but all that comes out is a puff of air. You glare at Charlie who just shakes his head sadly at you.

"I can't have you shouting out, Dean. That would spoil our conversation. Sam is fine in there. Mom's a good woman, she'll look after him." And then his fingers are on your head again, a hand on each temple, and you're frozen in place.

It doesn't hurt so much this time. Charlie's voice is floating around your consciousness but it's as if he's trying to be careful this time. Doesn't mean to say you're not going to have one hell of a headache later. You're feeling lightheaded and the world around you is fading to a fuzzy grey. Your thoughts are incoherent but unlike last time you feel warm. With a shock you realise Charlie is sharing his thoughts and feelings. As he withdraws his hands you sink to your knees and stare up at him, gaping like a fish out of water. He smiles gently at you and then dissipates slowly.

You drag yourself up, using the Impala as support, registering hazily that Sam is exiting the trailer. You can hear him making his farewell to Charlie's mom but you know he's seen you. Next thing you know, he's sitting next to you, checking you out worriedly. You feel nothing. You know you should be pissed with Charlie, you should have put up a fight, but all you feel is… empty.

Forcing your mask back into place before Sam asks any awkward questions, you stride over to the hedge your gun landed in. A few minutes of rummaging around brings the said weapon to hand. Nonchalantly you replace the gun in your waistband and return to Sam. It's a brief distraction but Sam isn't falling for it.

"What the hell was that in there?" he asks. And you wish you could answer that. You look up at him slightly vacantly, unable to concentrate properly. That promised headache is there, building slowly at the base of your skull and working it's way up.

"What?" and you dig around in your pocket for the keys. Taking them out, you pass them to Sam and silently walk past him to the passenger's side of the car. You give him a look that brooks no argument. He blinks slowly and then takes up position behind the wheel.

"You know we're going to have to talk about it, don't you?" Yeah, you know but not just now. You need to get your own head round this and that might take some time.

By the time Sam pulls up to the motel room, you think you've got a handle on what Charlie was trying to tell you back at the trailer park. You just need to articulate it for Sam. Hell, you need to articulate it for yourself. There are some things that are just too hard to put into words. It's all in your head, you just need to get it into some sort of order. As Sam puts the car into park and switches the engine off you can feel him watching you. You sigh and lift your head off the back of the seat where you've been resting.

"Charlie was there. He was at the trailer park and he was in my head again." And that's as much as you can express at the moment. You turn to face Sam. "I can't explain it, Sam. He was there and he put his hands on my head and then I just …." You trail off into nothingness, shaking your head.

Sam looks at you as if you're having some kind of breakdown and you can't really blame him. It sounds pretty pathetic even to you, and you just lived through it. You shrug helplessly at him and look away. Sam obviously decides to take pity on you and drops the subject for the time being. He climbs out of the car and makes his way to the motel room. By the time you've followed him in, he's got bottled water on the nightstand and he's sitting on the edge of his bed.

"Mrs Harrison was quite forthcoming," he informs you as you settle yourself opposite him, clearly deciding to cut you some slack. "Charlie's death hit her hard, she still can't understand why he did it. She told me he was very insecure."

"He was," you find yourself nodding along. Sam just glances at you curiously and carries on.

"Seems there was no love lost between her and Alice either. She had a few choice words to say about her. Charlie was totally besotted but as far as mom could see, Alice walked over him on a daily basis. She doesn't know why he stayed with her."

"He was under her thumb," you agree.

"Yeah, and she knew it. According to mom, Charlie wanted to move away from here, make a new start for the two of them but Alice wouldn't hear of it. She told them both that she grew up here and she was going to die here and if Charlie wanted to be with her then the sooner he accepted that the better."

"She was a total bitch," you whisper and you know Sam is giving you that look again. The 'are you okay' look he saves for special occasions. You can't blame him now though. You think you're okay but Charlie left you with more than a headache and you're having trouble working out which emotions are his and which are yours. You think you're just getting to grips with it but each time Sam mentions Alice, another feeling pops into your head.

"Charlie was in love with her, totally. He felt it was the first time anyone had paid him any attention, even if it was all the wrong kind. She started out being good to him, saw him as a steady income and a doormat. But she got bored, that's when Davey stepped in. Charlie couldn't take the rejection and the humiliation." You scrub your hands over your face, screwing your eyes closed. You can feel Sam watching you, bewildered.

"How do you know all this?" he asks, not unreasonably. You open your eyes and face your brother, hoping you're not going to sound too crazy.

"Charlie told me," you offer, "when we were at his mom's."

Sam sits back and regards you studiously. You try not to fidget and squirm under his scrutiny. Just before you say something you might regret to him, he nods thoughtfully.

"What else did he tell you?"

"Not much," you admit ruefully. For all the aggravation he's caused you, Charlie hasn't actually left you with very much to go on. You've got his feelings, sure, but that's not going to help you and Sam get rid of him. And you know, without a doubt, you have to get rid of him. Before he hurts someone else. Before he hurts you. Or Sam.

"Dean?" Sam's in your face suddenly and you wonder when he got so close. Maybe you were so lost in your thoughts you forgot you were in the middle of a conversation. You could kick yourself. You really need to get your head back in the game. Idly, you wonder what Charlie took from you while he was kicking around in your mind this time. You shift your focus back from the middle ground to Sam's face.

"He didn't blame Alice. For cheating on him." Clarity hits you like a bolt of lightning. Suddenly you know why Charlie is choosing the victims he is. "He didn't ever think he deserved Alice so he wasn't surprised when she cheated on him. It was _who_ she cheated with that got to him. It was a bit close to home. He couldn't cope with that so he topped himself."

"So why is he still here?" Sam questions. It's a reasonable enough query and you'd think you would know the answer now. After all, you and Charlie have shared headspace for longer than is decent now. But that's an answer you don't have. If the freak left it with you, he hid it well. You're not used to digging around in your own mind. Things in the deepest recesses of your memory are there for a reason and you don't want to start stirring them up now. So you decide to ignore the question.

"He chooses spurned lovers. Men who don't even know they're being cheated on. I bet if we went back to Christine and Melinda we'd find a few skeletons in their closets."

Sam ponders that for a few minutes then gives you a look that makes you shudder involuntarily. He smirks at you. "I've never cheated on you, Dean," he grins.

"Huh?" That's not what you were expecting. You blink at your brother rapidly, trying to process what he's just said, along with that smirk. You shake your head at him. "What?" you add, just for good measure. Sam laughs and slides back along his bed until his back hits the wall and he relaxes his shoulders.

"What I mean is, why did Charlie come after you? We're not even involved so why would he think I was cheating on you?" A look of indignation flits across his face suddenly, "And why would he think _I _would be the one to cheat anyway? Everyone knows you're the one who has trouble keeping it in one place."

"Me? I'm the embodiment of faithfulness." You raise your eyebrows as you give Sam a glare that would cut through steel. He just laughs and after a minute you have to join him. Now he's mentioned it, it does seem kind of screwy the way Charlie has you two totally wrong. You've never known anyone as loyal and steadfast as Sam whereas you, well, if you're with the same girl twice it's a miracle.

"Seriously though, Dean. Why?"

And that, you think, is the 64 million dollar question.

* * *

**tbc**


	4. Chapter 4

By the time morning rolls around you're feeling more like your normal self. You managed to sleep relatively untroubled by dreams of Charlie. You woke once but you don't think that particular dream belonged to you. You suspect it was a little something Charlie left behind for you.

Sam is nowhere to be seen. There's no noise from the bathroom and a cursory glance around the room reveals a missing jacket and, more importantly, a distinct lack of Impala keys. Wherever he's gone, he's taken the car – your car – and he's not left a note. That's not like him and as you start pulling on your clothes you begin to worry. A look through the window confirms that your car isn't where you last saw it. In fact, it's nowhere in sight. You try to stay positive. Maybe he went to get coffee, or do some laundry. Yeah, right. Last time either of you did laundry it was the result of a three hour argument over whose turn it was. Sam lost.

You notice it's gone 10 o'clock which would explain the bright sunshine but doesn't explain where your brother is. You fumble in your jacket pocket for your phone. Glancing at the message log you're disappointed but not surprised to find it empty. You bring Sam's number up on screen as quickly as your fingers will move. You hesitate, a little scared that the call will go unanswered and a little more scared that Sam will pick up and you won't like what he's got to say. You push the call button anyway and raise it to your ear.

Sam's phone rings and rings. You're willing him to just pick up, pick up, pick up damn it! But after eight rings it goes to voicemail. You bring the phone down and stare at the screen as if it knows where your brother is but won't tell you. You resist the urge to hurl it across the room and instead redial. It's the same story – eight rings and voicemail. The worry you felt is escalating and it won't be long before it's a full blown panic. You're not normally one for over reactions but when it comes to Sam you've got it down to a fine art. You briefly wonder about trying his phone for a third time before dismissing it as a waste of time.

You hurriedly throw your jacket on and grab the keys to the room. You make your way across an ominously empty parking lot to the motel office. There's nobody behind the desk so you thump your first against the bell a little too hard. You hear some shuffling in the backroom and a middle aged guy appears in front of you.

"What?" he demands. You're a little taken aback by his attitude but, all things considered, it's the least of your concerns.

"Have you been here all night?" you ask. You don't have time for pleasantries and you wouldn't really want to share them with this guy anyway. He looks at you and shrugs in the affirmative.

"All night. Drew the short straw this week."

"Did you see the guy I checked in with at all?"

"Yeah. I saw him. Left about 6.30 in that car of his." You grit your teeth and resist the urge to punch the guy. It's _your_ car, for God's sake. The guy leans forward conspiratorially and lowers his voice. "Looked like a guy on a mission."

"Which way did he go?" You're not interested in any missions, you just want to know where the hell your brother has got to. The motel guy backs off slightly at your aggressive tone but you don't care.

"He took the road into town. Looked like he had the devil after him."

You thank the guy and spin on your heels. The office door rattles behind you as it swings shut. Out in the parking lot the sun has got warmer but it can't lift the chill from your bones. Sam is missing. He took your car, he's not answering his phone and he didn't leave you a message. When that boy gets back you're going to rip him a new one. Because one way or another, he _is_ coming back, you're sure of that.

It's too far to walk into town so you take the Winchester way. The parking lot is empty so you have to venture a little further afield till you spot a lone Honda down a side street. It's not the sort of vehicle you'd normally be seen dead in but these are desperate times. It's the work of few seconds to get into the car and a few more to get it started. You furiously slam your hand against the radio's dial when it starts to blare out Kenny Rogers. Whoever this car belongs to needs a serious music lesson.

But credit where credit's due, it's in good condition and moves smoothly through the streets. You don't know where you're heading but you're not really surprised to find that you've wound up back at Jaspers. Your Sammy radar hasn't let you down before so you don't expect it to now. There's no sign of the Impala but that doesn't mean Sam wasn't here. Slamming the door of your borrowed car, you cast your eyes up and down the street. It's a normal working day and people are milling about, window shopping, catching up on the gossip, hurrying to meetings or just wandering around. Jaspers looks decidedly closed and behind the shop windows the display cabinets are empty, no lights shining on sparkling diamonds and rubies. As you get nearer the shop you spot a shoddily handwritten sign announcing that Jaspers is 'closed until further notice'.

Closed shops have never posed a problem before. The back of the store is concealed from public view. It's a risk, breaking in in broad daylight, but it gets your adrenaline going. It's a challenge and the stakes are high. You just know that Sammy's been here. You're praying he's left you some sort of clue as to where he's gone and you just hope he's gone there on his own volition.

The lack of high tech security system at the jewellery store amazes you. You wonder that it's never been broken into before. Or maybe it has. Davey didn't seem that bothered about anything other than his own carnal desires when you met him. Perhaps he's been hoping for a heist so he can claim off the insurance and disappear to Hawaii. Whatever the reason, you're grateful. His laziness has made your job that bit easier today. You're in the shop within minutes, all the alarms, pitiful though they are, disarmed and harmless.

It looks as though Davey has done a runner. The safe in the back office is hanging open and empty. The lack of stock anywhere doesn't bode well for a relaunch of the store. It doesn't look as though there's been a fight and you wonder if this is how Sam found it here or whether this happened after he'd been here. Because you know he's been here. You can feel it in your bones.

Unfortunately that's not all you can feel. The temperature is dropping like a stone and your breath is misting in front of your face. You're getting really sick of Charlie popping up like this. You're ready for him this time though, your gun fully loaded with rock salt. You don't want to resort to shooting him, not here. It's too public but you just don't have time for him right now. You pull your weapon out from the back of your jeans and spin round to face him.

Except it's not him.

The man, ghost, in front of you isn't Charlie and you only just manage to bite back that groan of despair. Just when you thought you were getting somewhere up pops ghost number two and screws it all to hell. This one just looks at you. He looks pathetic and lost, like he shouldn't be here, which you have to agree with. He doesn't seem to know what to do with himself and if you weren't so focussed on Sam you'd almost feel sorry for him. He isn't making a move and you want to get this show on the road, time's a wasting here. You wave your gun at him in what you hope is an encouraging manner.

"Who're you?" It's as good a conversation opener as any and the ghost casts doleful eyes at you.

"Am I dead?" he asks you in a bewildered tone. That throws you for a moment. You've met ghosts who don't realise they're dead before, of course you have, but they've never asked before. You've always had to tell them.

"Um… yeah, you're dead. Who are you?" You don't let your gun drop, you're too canny for that. You've made that mistake before, a long time ago but you can still remember the bruises and Dad's face when you told him how it happened. The spectre in front of you seems to process the information.

"Why am I here then?"

"I don't know. Who are you?" for the third time of asking. You feel like you're banging your head against a brick wall with this one.

"I'm dead? Like, really dead?" he asks you again and if he had a corporeal form you would be beating him to death yourself by now.

"Yes! You're dead! Now, who the hell are you?"

"Oh," he seems to snap back to the conversation at hand. "I'm Callum Waters. Or was, I guess." He pauses and looks at you as though he's only just realised he's not alone. "Who're you?"

Now it's your turn to be confused. You've never been asked who you are by a ghost. They generally already know, or they're too busy trying to kill you in varied and gruesome ways. The name he's given you sounds familiar and you think you should recognise it. You wish Sam was with you because he's always got the answers. It's on the tip of your tongue when he interrupts your thought process.

"Who are you?" and he's advancing on you. Just slightly, not enough to be a threat but enough to bring you back to your current situation.

"I'm here to help you," you answer, evading the actual question. "How long have you been here?"

"I've seen you before. You were here with your friend, the tall one." and he takes another step forward. "He's no good for you, you know. I've seen his type before. They always cheat in the end."

"What?" Why does everyone seem to think that you're the loser in this imaginary relationship Sam has invented for you two?

"I can see it, in your mind. He's hurt you and he'll do it again. You should leave now, before it's too late for you. Like it was for me."

And that's when it hits you. This is the saintly Callum that Christine Rosenberg was in full mourning for. He could be the clue you've been looking for. If he's been here all morning maybe he knows where Sam has gone. You don't feel comfortable doing this but you decide to play on his sympathies for you. You cast your eyes down, letting your shoulders slump forward.

"Do you know where he is? I've been looking for him all morning." You look up hopefully but Callum doesn't seem inclined to help you.

"He's no good for you, you need to leave him, leave here. Before it's too late."

"But have you seen him? Please? I need to find him." God, you hate how needy you sound but it's all for the show and you need Callum on your side if you're going to get any information out of him. "I miss him."

"I missed Christine too, at first," Callum admits, "but it gets easier. You have to accept that you don't mean as much to him as he does to you. Chrissy was a liar, just like your friend. He doesn't care about you. If he cares, why was he here this morning? Without you? Talking to _that_ man?" The disgust in Callum's voice shines through and you feel both elated that Sam was here and a little worried that he was talking to Davey without consulting you first. Just for a minute you wonder if this is what everyone means when they tell you Sam is cheating on you.

"Did they leave together?" You almost don't want to know the answer but Callum shakes his head and you feel a weight lift off your shoulders.

"No, your friend left first. Davey went about an hour after him."

You nod at Callum and turn to leave the shop. Before you can get to the door though, he's in front of you, blocking your way.

"Leave him be, he doesn't deserve you." And then he's gone, disappeared in a puff of smoke, literally, and you're none the wiser as to where Sam is other than you're on the right road.

Back in the street you make your way reluctantly to the Honda waiting patiently for you where you left it. You speculate absently if anyone has reported it stolen yet. You sure as hell wouldn't if it were yours. Just as you're about to open the door your phone rings. Ripping it out of your pocket at record speed you glance at the screen. It's Sam and the relief is indescribable. You feel your knees sagging and you lean against the car as you hit the answer button.

"Sam? Where the hell are you?"

"Dean?" Sam's voice is distant and sounds confused. Your anxiety rockets up a notch.

"Sammy? Where are you?" you repeat, listening intently for any background noise. There's a long pause before Sam answers again, too long.

"Dean? I'm… I don't know where I am."

"Are you hurt?" and the worry is hovering around a panic level.

"Dean… I need you." And the panic is now fully blown.

"Sam, where are you hurt? C'mon. Talk to me, dude." But there's a silence on the other end that's broken only by your brother's ragged breathing. After what seems like forever you hear him take a deep breath.

"I'm okay, Dean. Just … lost. I don't know where I am, Dean. I don't know how I got here." He's speaking rapidly and you can feel his fear down the phone. Although you're panicking yourself you need to keep him calm if you're going to stand any chance of working out where he is.

"Sam, it's okay. Okay? Slow down. Take a deep breath. Okay?" You can almost see him nodding. "What can you see, Sammy?"

"Um… there are trees… birds, I think I can hear the river."

"Okay, that's a start. That's good. What do you remember?" Because if he can remember where he was, and how long ago that was, you can pinpoint a rough location.

"I remember being in the motel room. You were asleep, and then I was at Jaspers and then … I don't remember, Dean."

"That's a start, Sam. I'll find you. Okay? Can you see the car?" You're already rooting through the glove compartment of the Honda looking for a map. You pull the contents out in an uncontrolled fashion, suppressing a whoop of glee when a map falls out. You flip it open on the roof of the car.

"I can't see a road, or the car." Sam sounds defeated. "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm really sorry."

"It's okay. Stay where you are. And please, tell me you're armed?"

You reckon Sam must have been travelling along the road that runs beside the river, but he's obviously left the car somewhere and walked down into the surrounding woods. Right now you're more interested in where he is but you know once you've found him you'll have to tackle the question of why he left in the first place without at least waking you. You narrow your search area down to a couple of square miles that you reckon you can tackle easily without the equipment you'd prefer to have. That's in the Impala and you reckon once you've found that, you'll be in spitting distance of Sam.

Driving down the country tracks out by the river isn't as easy as it would be in your own car but you're a skilled driver. You can't believe your luck when you spot the Impala within the first hour of your search. It's down a dirt track off to the side of the main road to Mrs Harrison's trailer park. You bring the Honda to a squealing halt behind it and throw yourself out. Running your hand lovingly down it's flank you pop the trunk, basking in the glow of your weapons cache. You quickly take what you want, a machete to clear the way if you need it, a few more rounds of rock salt and a shot gun. You don't know what Sam has so you take an extra knife and hand gun.

Turning from the car you look into the woods. Despite the bright sunshine they look dark and foreboding. A shiver sweeps over you and you know it's not from the breeze dancing through the leaves. Cradling your gun in one hand, you step forward. You're desperate to shout out for Sam but you know that could attract unwanted attention to either yourself or your brother. You know Sam said he wasn't hurt but you need to see that for yourself before you believe it. He's been known to underplay injuries before, you both have. It's the way you were brought up. You can't help it.

You're fully alert as you press deeper into the woods. The ground underfoot is soft and slightly damp. Old leaves conspire with hidden roots to trip you up and you have to go slower than you would have liked. You're no good to Sammy with a broken leg though. Less haste, more speed is the mantra that takes up residence in your head. Listening out for any sound that doesn't belong in the wilderness, eyes sharp, you make frustratingly slow progress. Eventually you can't stand it any more and you call out for Sam, listening for any response.

Nothing answers you. Not a bird, not a squirrel, not a ghost and not Sam. Your heart sinks. You're losing faith in this search, beginning to question yourself. Are you headed in the right direction? Did you take the right turning where the path broke into two? Have you got your bearings right?

And then, just as you're about to give up and turn back, you hear it. A faint moan ahead of you. You'd know that sound anywhere. You've heard it often enough and each time it strikes the fear of God into you. It's the sound Sam makes when he's in pain and trying not to let on. You break into a run, or as close as you can get through the undergrowth. Your homing instinct is spot on and it only takes a few minutes before you can see Sam's form, hunched up beneath a large oak tree. He's shaking violently and you break into a sprint.

Skidding to a halt on your knees next to him, you're taken aback by the way he jerks away from you, eyes wide and unrecognising. You put your hand on his shoulder to hold him down and to reassure him.

"Sammy, it's me. It's just me."

He looks at you and then you feel him relax under your touch.

"Dean?" he breathes. "What are you doing here?" And that simple question has you more worried than the bedraggled look your brother is currently sporting, more worried than the spots of blood covering his hands, more worried than the vacant gaze he's turned on you. Because that one question tells you that somewhere along the line Sam has suffered some sort of head injury. One you can't see and he didn't deem fit to mention to you on the phone.

You gently probe his head with your fingers. There are no lumps or bumps that weren't there earlier and your hands come away clean, no blood or grey matter. Sliding your hand round to his forehead you note that his temperature is slightly raised, but no cause for concern. You move his head so you can see his eyes. You're relieved to see they're reacting to the light as they should be. But he still looks confused so you give him a reassuring smile.

"Hey Sam. I told you I'd find you."

"You did?"

"Yeah, Sam. I always find you." You sit back on your haunches and regard your brother carefully. You have no idea when he got here, or why, but you do know that you need to get back to the motel. You need to check Sam out, make sure he's okay. You can work on the minor details later. "Can you stand?"

Sam looks at you as though you've just asked him to solve Fermat's last theorem, which he probably could, and raises his eyebrows. In silent answer he pushes up on his hands and you're pleased to see there's no damage to his limbs or his co-ordination. He sways briefly once he's fully upright and you automatically put a hand out to steady him. He rights himself and waves off your help, looking purposefully in the opposite direction to the one you need to be heading in. You silently grasp his shoulder and turn him around, giving him a gentle shove onto the right path.

The walk back to the Impala doesn't take as long as you were expecting. Sam's sense of direction has never been as good as yours but it gets you back to where you want to be. There's no conversation and you spend the whole trek keeping a close eye on your brother. Every so often he looks back at you and whether he's checking you're still there or whether he's getting pissed off with that hand at his back the whole time, you don't know and, quite frankly, you don't care. You just want to get him back to the motel and start figuring out what exactly happened here today.

You have a thousand questions reeling through your mind. You have a sinking feeling that Charlie has been messing with your little brother. You want to know why Callum is still hanging around and what the hell he was talking about and you're curious as to where Davey has gone. But mostly you just want to get Sam somewhere safe so you can work this all out.

The relief you feel when the car comes into sight is only tinged slightly with guilt about that Honda you borrowed. You know you won't be returning it now but maybe later you can make an anonymous call. Or, more likely, Sam will make that call. He's always been that little angel on your shoulder, persuading you to do the 'right' thing. It's caused more than one fight over the years. You smile subtly when you remember some of those fights. Little Sammy was quite a handful at times.

You get Sam settled in the passenger seat before sliding round to your side. You always feel at home in the Impala, as though nothing could ever hurt you in here. In here, you're in charge. Worringly, the keys are still in the ignition, presumably where Sam left them. It's a pretty quiet spot here so the chances of someone actually passing by with the intention to steal a car are slim but even so. You glance at Sam again. He's sitting in exactly the same position you deposited him in and the best thing you can do is get moving.

The Impala purrs into life the instant you turn the key and you're back on the road. Sam has relaxed and is leaning against the door slightly. If he knows your eyes are alternating between him and the road, he doesn't show it. He's got his eyes closed and for a minute he looks like that 14 year old you used to ferry to school and back. You're listening out for his breathing but it's all normal. If you didn't know better you'd think he'd just had a late night and was catching up on his sleep.

It takes just over an hour to get back to the motel. You nudge Sam gently on the shoulder to rouse him and he grunts an acknowledgement at you. He doesn't seem inclined to move just yet though so you nudge him again, a bit harder. That seems to do the trick. He opens his eyes and glares at you. He's all there this time. There's no momentary disorientation or, when he clambers out of the car, any swaying. Moving swiftly, you open the door to your room, not forgetting to check out your security measures.

Sam pushes past you and heads straight to the bathroom. You sit on the edge of your bed and watch the bathroom door, waiting for your brother to reappear. After five minutes of silence you can't take it any more and stand up. Hovering outside the bathroom, you raise your hand to knock on the door.

"Sam? You okay in there?" You are answered with a shuffling and muttering and then the door flies open so quickly it nearly knocks you across the room.

"I'm fine," he tells you, pushing past you into the room. "Just a bit… bothered." He grabs a bottle of soda from his duffle and sits down at the table, taking a long swig. You regard him closely. He really does look fine. The physical check can wait till later, you decide.

"What do you remember, Sam? Where's the last place you remember being?" You know he was at Jaspers but after that, well, he could have gone anywhere, done anything. He shakes his head as though he's clearing cobwebs from his brain but you can see the cogs turning from where you're standing.

"I remember waking up and just _having_ to go to Jaspers. I don't know why. It's like there was this voice in my head and I couldn't get rid of it until I went."

"Did you have Charlie in there with you?" you demand, all the while promising yourself that you're going to have a long, long conversation with him as soon as you pin him down. Sam looks up at you.

"Maybe, I don't know." He pauses for a long while to think about it. "It could have been. It didn't register at the time. I remember being at Jaspers, don't remember how I got there, just being there. Durrant was there. He looked like he was in a rush but he, um, I think we fooled him with our act. I think he tried to come on to me." That last statement is rushed out and Sam has turned an interesting shade of pink. You smirk a little.

"That's your own fault, dude. It was your storyline, not mine." Sam glares at you and decides to ignore you.

"Anyway, I think we argued. He told me that you weren't worth it and that I'd be much happier with someone else, anyone else. And then he kinda touched me."

"What d'you mean he touched you?" you interrupt, not liking the sound of this and remembering those spots of blood on Sam's hands. Sam looks puzzled for a moment as if he's trying really hard to remember something that's just eluding him. Then, like mist clearing in the early morning he has a moment of clarity.

"He tried to hold my hand." He sounds surprised, whether because he can remember or whether it's because of what the memory is, you don't know. To your bemusement he suddenly looks sheepish. "I hit him," he admits and you can't decide whether to laugh or cheer out loud. Serves the son of a bitch right.

"Okay, Sammy. What happened then?"

"He told me to get the hell out and I left. Next thing I remember is trying to call you." He looks at you helplessly and you feel useless. You have no idea why Sam ended up at the river although you suspect Charlie isn't as innocent in all this as his mother would like to believe. Charlie's no angel and the sooner you put a stop to his little games the better. You scrub your hand over your face, feeling old beyond your years.

"It's okay, dude. We'll figure this out."


	5. Chapter 5

It takes a little while but eventually you persuade Sam that maybe he could do with putting his head down for a bit. He gripes, like you knew he would, tells you he's not a baby needing an afternoon nap, tells you he's okay and he doesn't want you fussing over him. You just smile and ride over his protestations. The look in his eyes gives up the lie. He's making all the right Winchester noises but you know really he appreciates the concern.

Once you're happy he's asleep, and that didn't take long, you get yourself comfortable. There's no way you're leaving him alone just yet. Charlie wants to have some fun and games? Fine. Let him come to you. Don't even think about bothering Sammy again.

Watching over your little brother comes as second nature to you. You've been doing it since you were four years old, since your father thrust a screaming bundle of warmth at you and told you to get the hell out of the house. Looking at him now, sleeping peacefully, you wonder what you were thinking, bringing him back to this life. Deep down you think, if you'd left him alone, Jessica would still be around, he would be happily living the American dream. You can't help but feel guilty every so often. And selfish, because you know you wouldn't do it any differently if you had the chance.

Dropping your head in your hands you wrack your brain to think of a way to get Charlie to come and talk to you again. Because you and him? You have issues that need to be cleared up. And then you need to send him on his way. Permanently. Oh yes, then there's Callum. What the hell is he doing here still? That was a bit of curved ball, you think wryly. Still, he didn't seem the troublesome type. You think you and Sam can deal with him later. Let him mope at the jeweller's store. He seemed happy enough there. Although, on reflection, now he knows for sure he's dead he may be a little pissed off. Perhaps you should warn Christine. You wouldn't mind a return trip to her.

You must have dropped off for a while because when you open your eyes again Sam is moving quietly round the room and the sun has fallen below the horizon. Your neck is stiff and your back needs a good stretch to work out all the kinks in your spine. Falling asleep anywhere is a skill your dad taught you many, many years ago and you've always been able to catch a few hours regardless of the circumstances.

You watch Sam carrying out whatever task he's set himself. He hasn't realised you're awake yet and it gives you the perfect opportunity to assess what damage Charlie's little trick has done to him. He's moving freely, no sign of any injury although every so often he rubs his forehead as though he's trying to coax a memory to the surface. He turns and spots you studying him.

"Hey," he says, eloquent as ever. "You're up."

"Yeah. How you doing? Any little… flashbacks?" It wouldn't be the worst nightmare Sam could have but you always check. It's become a habit and habits are hard to break.

"No, nothing." Sam sounds less downhearted than you were expecting and when he turns to face you he has a bright look on his face. "I have been thinking, though. I think Charlie sees himself as some sort of saviour. He thinks he's saving these men from a lifetime of being cuckolded. He thinks he's doing them a favour."

"Cuckolded?" You can't help raising your eyebrows and smirking at Sam's old fashioned term. Sam glares at you.

"It means being cheated on."

"I know what it means, Sam." Sam just smiles at you. He knew damn well that you understood the term. Sometimes he just does it to piss you off. Means he must be feeling okay, or at least better than he was. Then his face sobers.

"Doesn't explain why he's so determined to hang around though. His mother had him cremated and as far as I can tell there's nothing to keep him here." He runs his hand through his hair, tugging on it slightly. "It's not as if Alice has done something to bring him back."

Sam sighs in frustration and you have to admit he's got a point. He doesn't appear to have been brought back by anyone. If he had, he'd more likely be a zombie than a ghost. And anyway, who would have wanted him back? Alice seems quite happy he's gone. Gives her the freedom to screw around in the open. No, definitely nothing to do with her. Mom? You don't think so. She's buried a husband and if she wanted to hang on to little Charlie she wouldn't have had him cremated. So what the hell is keeping him here?

You throw your head back in frustration.

"What do we do now, Sam?" You hate having to ask for help, even from Sam, but sometimes you just draw a blank everywhere you look. Sam pulls a face and grabs his jacket.

"Well, I'm going for food. You can come or stay here. What d'you want?"

If he thinks you're letting him out of sight after Charlie's little stunt, he can think again. You just throw him a withering look and stand up, casting your eyes round for all your various accoutrements. Your jacket is slung over the back of a chair, wallet and phone on the nightstand, knife under your pillow and your gun, well, that's never far from you. It takes less than a minute for you to be fully equipped and ready to go. Sam just smiles at you and you suspect he's humouring you.

Dinner is a short lived affair with little to no conversation. You're both tired but neither of you will admit as much to the other. By the time you're back at the motel you're ready to hit the sack. Sam, it would appear, has other ideas though. He's got his laptop out and is settled at the small table before you've even got as far as the bathroom. You wonder what he's up to briefly and then decide he'll let you know as and when.

After a hot shower you feel more refreshed. Emerging in a cloud of steam you find Sam fast asleep on top of his bed, laptop open in front of him. Taking it gently so as not to wake him, you glance at the screen. You're not checking up on him. Not really. You'd like to find him looking at porn but you know that's never going to happen.

The website he's on isn't what you were expecting. He's checking out some bizarrely amateurish occult site. You've never heard of it before but then that's hardly a surprise. Your experience of the net is limited to say the least. You notice he's left his email account open on another page of his browser and as far as you're concerned, if it's open it's as good as saying 'come look at me'.

There's a bunch of unread emails from people at Stanford. That surprises you. You didn't know he kept up with those people. You always assumed it was too painful for him but obviously Sam needs to cling on to something. For a brief moment you wonder if you're not enough for him, if secretly he wants to go back to his college life.

The first email from someone you recognise is titled Re: Need Help. You glance over at Sam, just to make sure he's still asleep, before clicking on it. See, you're not computer illiterate. You can do emails. The message is brief and non informative. A simple 'sorry, can't help you'. The next message down is pretty much the same.

The third one though offers a smidgeon of hope. It's from a hunter, Alvin. You met him once, briefly, a couple of years ago, before Sammy went to college. The guy's name always made you laugh and you used to wonder at the cruelty of a parent's sense of humour. He told you once it means 'friend to all' which made his line of work kind of ironic, seeing as how he kills things for a living. You wonder how Sam's got his email. You thought he cut all his ties when he left but maybe there's more to your brother than you realised.

You quickly scan down to Sam's original message. It's succinct and to the point. Sam never likes to waste words except when he's explaining something to you. Then he's like motor mouth, never knows when to stop. You're sure he does it deliberately to wind you up. He's explained the situation without giving away too much, which is just as well because if he'd let on that you've been up close and personal with a ghost you would have had to demand restitution from him. Which would have been painful. He asks if anyone has come across anything similar or knows anything that might help.

Alvin, it would appear, had a similar encounter many years ago. He doesn't hold back on the details and half way through his second paragraph you know more than you wanted to. Why doesn't the guy paraphrase? Does he really think you need, or want, to know that his ghost was more intimate than an octopus on ecstasy? Still, you reflect, it seems he had more fun than you've had with Charlie.

Turns out the root of his problem was a treasured lock of hair in a grieving husband's wallet. Human remains, he explains, and damn but you should have thought of that earlier. It's not like you haven't come across it before. You wonder what the hell Charlie left behind. You're pretty sure that Alice doesn't have anything. She didn't seem the sentimental type. Probably would've clashed with her pristine, white home. And who keeps stuff like that anyway? It's times like this you wish your upbringing had been a little more 'normal'.

Sam is snoring gently and your eyes are getting heavy. You decide that this can wait till morning, although you'd like to know why Sam hadn't mentioned Alvin's message yet. Maybe he's only just picked it up himself, you think. Giving him the benefit of the doubt you close down the computer and slide into bed yourself. You're asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow.

When you wake the room is still and softly lit by the rising sun. You can hear Sam moving quietly round the bathroom and you let out that breath you didn't realise you were holding. You take advantage of the peace and bury yourself deeper under the covers. You know when Sam reappears you're going to have to talk about those emails he's been getting, and that's going to open a whole new can of worms. He's bound to have a hissy fit that you've been going through his mail, he's inordinately protective of his laptop. You think it has something to do with that Trojan Horse you managed to find a couple of months ago. You'd have thought you'd be forgiven by now but apparently Sam can harbour a grudge with the best of them.

You didn't realise you'd closed your eyes again but next thing you know Sam is tapping your foot none too gently to wake you up again. He looks a little pissed and you're guessing he's worked out what you were up on last night. You don't know how he does it, you thought you'd shut it all down properly. You pull yourself up on the headboard and steel yourself for the onslaught.

"Have you been on my computer?" Sam demands. Now, you could take this conversation in one of two directions. You could deny everything and hope that Sam brings up his emails by himself. Or you could go on the offensive and demand an explanation. The former carries the risk that Sam will see fit to keep his correspondence to himself and then you're stuck for a way forward. The latter, however, could result in a full blown fight, something that you've managed to avoid for several weeks now. You scan Sam's face to see if there are any clues in it to help you make your decision. It doesn't help.

"I had to close it down last night. You fell asleep with it still on." You go for a halfway point, neither admitting nor denying anything. "I know how you get about your stuff."

It doesn't seem to pacify him though. "Did you go through my emails?"

"They were open, Sam. It's not like I was spying on you or anything." You really wanted to avoid a fight this morning but Sam has you at a disadvantage here. He's towering above you and you ought to get out of bed at least, if you're going to continue in this direction. Sam surprises you though. He shrugs and turns away from you.

"So you saw the note from Alvin?" and you can't help but smile a little at the name again. It's immature and pathetic but in this business you seek humour in the simplest of things. It always makes you think of chipmunks.

"Yeah."

"So, you think we missed some remains?" Sam's putting his jacket on as he talks to you. You can almost see the cogs whirring in his head as you wonder where he thinks he's going. "Get dressed," he orders as he opens the door.

"Sam?"

"Coffee," he answers and you let your tense muscles relax, just a little bit. Won't be happy till he's back though.

By the time he's done the coffee run you're up and showered, feeling refreshed and raring to face whatever the new day throws at you. It seems Sam has been doing some thinking while he was out because he's got a triumphant look on his face as he comes through the door.

"I think we need to go back to Charlie's mom," he tells you. You weren't quite prepared for him to come in spouting action plans but you've got nowhere to be today and it sounds as good a plan as any. Taking a long draught of scalding coffee, you look at him over the rim of the mug.

"I assume there's a reason for that?" you ask. Sam nods and gets settled by the table with his coffee. You think you might be in for lecture but it turns out Sam is just thinking aloud. You listen with half an ear. You know when Sam gets to the important part he'll get your attention.

"We're obviously looking for some sort of human remains," he theorises. "Mom had him cremated so there must be a keepsake somewhere, and who would keep something like that? His fiancée doesn't seem that bothered he's dead and her house looked liked she'd already cleared out all of his stuff. The only other person is his mother. Thing is, what would she have kept and where is it?"

He turns to look you in the eye and you snap back to full attention. This looks like it could be the clincher.

"What do parents keep?" he asks you. You think it's a rhetorical question, or at least you hope it is because you have no idea. Dad isn't exactly a model father so you just shake your head and raise your eyebrows at Sam.

"They keep their children's milestones. Like their first pair of shoes, first haircut, school reports, drawings." He stops and looks significantly at you. "And their first teeth."

"That's just wrong!" You can't help yourself. The idea of keeping bodily parts is just repulsive to you. You'll never understand it but that's okay, because Sam is about to explain it to you.

"It's tradition, Dean. Goes back centuries. Parents used to keep milk teeth because they believed they were prime targets for witches.. Once a witch has her hands on a body part she can use that to perform black magic. So they would keep the teeth somewhere safe. Over the years people lost that belief but kept up the tradition of the tooth fairy."

You can see the logic in that but it still doesn't make it any less creepy.

"So, you think there may be some little Charlie teeth kicking around somewhere?"

"Depends how sentimental Mrs Harrison is. It's possible and right now it's our best bet."

"You think Charlie's just gonna let us walk in and destroy his teeth?"

"Well, we'll just have to be prepared." And that, it seems, is the end of the conversation.

You're back at the trailer park before noon. The sun is beating down and you're uncomfortably warm in the car. It's a relief to open the doors and step out into the open air. The door to Mrs Harrison's trailer is open which alerts you instantly to possible danger. Glancing over at Sam you see that he's noticed it too and has subtly drawn his weapon. There's nobody else around but that doesn't mean there aren't curtain twitchers watching your every move. With your shotgun hidden beneath your jacket but firmly in your grip, you make your way up the path.

The trailer is silent. Staying positive your consider the possibility that she's just out back, planting some flowers or hanging out washing. Although why she would leave the front door wide open is a conundrum. It's not the most salubrious of areas. You can't see the neighbours looking out for each other round here. You've lived in too many similar places to believe there's any sense of camaraderie here.

Sam reaches the door first and taps it with the butt of his gun. There's no response from inside so he steps over the threshold cautiously, gun aimed at nothing. You follow him, vigilant for any threats from within. The trailer is undisturbed and you don't feel anything untoward. Sam turns back and looks at you. You just shrug.

"Mrs Harrison?" Sam calls, warily. There's no response so you venture further into the trailer. Sam calls out again, but there's still no response. You check the kitchen and the living area but both are uninhabited. It looks likes she had breakfast but didn't clean up yet. You can relate to that. Sam has gone further in and is checking the bedroom.

He finds her in the bathroom. She's lying on the cold tiles, face down. By the time you respond to Sam's shout, he's checked her pulse and as you hover in the doorway he turns and shakes his head at you.

"She's dead, man. Has been for sometime, I think."

"How?" you ask, although that's not your biggest problem now.

"I don't know," Sam answers, turning back to the woman on the floor. "I can't see anything. I think she just… died." He sits back on his heels and sighs. "It does happen, you know. She's what? 80?"

"Great!" you huff. Part of you is pissed that she's just ruined your plans but another part of you, part of you which you know you should be ashamed of, is silently cheering at the easy access this gives you to the property. You can do a search and rummage and be out of here before anyone even knows what's happened. You hope Sam doesn't put up a fight, hope he doesn't get all sanctimonious on you about respecting the dead. You don't think he will, bearing in mind the stakes, and it's not like you're after her money or jewellery.

"Okay, Sam. We need to find this tooth, or teeth," and you can't repress the shudder and the hope that Sam is the one to find it, "and get the hell out of here."

Sam agrees without a fight, which is always a bonus. You split up and take a room each. You reckon it'll most likely be in the bedroom, just seems to you that's where people would keep that sort of stuff, so you send Sam off to check while you busy yourself with the kitchen and living area. You wonder how long you've got till Charlie works out what you're doing.

Apparently, not very long. Within five minutes of turning out kitchen drawers and cupboards you feel the temperature take a downward turn. You just have time to call a warning to Sam when Charlie appears in front of you, and he doesn't look happy.

"What are you doing, Dean?" he asks even though you both know damn well he already knows.

"Gotta stop you, Charlie. Can't let this carry on." You shake your head at him. Somewhere in the back of your mind you think if you can keep him talking, maybe he won't hurt you too much. You can hear Sam making his way to you. Unfortunately, so can Charlie. You need to keep his attention on you.

"You know what you're doing is wrong. Hey! Look at me when I'm talking to you!" You're losing him, he's drifting over to the door, where Sam is about to make an appearance. You're going to have to shoot him. You know that's going to attract attention from the neighbours but at this point, Sam is more important and needs must. But before you can aim and pull the trigger, your gun is flying out of your hand and lands harmlessly out of reach. Charlie has turned back to you and is looking sad.

"Why did you do that?" he sounds almost childish in his query. "You know I can't let you do that," and he shakes his head at you. One flick of his wrist and you're airborne, flying towards the opposite wall and you just know it's not going to end well.

Your back impacts against the wall and you feel the whole trailer shudder with the shock. You can vaguely hear Sam yelling through the ringing in your ears as you slide inelegantly down the wall. You try to catch your breath, the wind knocked out of you as you hit, and as loudly as you can you shout out to Sam.

"Keep looking, Sam. We gotta finish this _now_!"

Charlie turns away from you and you're scared he's going after Sam. You struggle to get your feet back under you, using the wall to push yourself upright. You're pretty sure you're going to have some new bruises tomorrow.

"Hey, Charlie! We're not finished here." Problem is, Charlie thinks you are. You reckon you can get to your gun before he notices what you're up to. You don't want to put Sam in any danger but you can't really see another option at the moment.

Watching the ghost out of the corner of your eye, you slowly inch towards where your gun is lying on the floor. You freeze as Charlie stops moving, scared he's worked out what you're trying to do. Your gun is so close but not close enough if Charlie decides to turn back to you. You know from bitter experience that these things can move fast, too fast for you.

You're in luck, for once. Although it doesn't bode well for Sam, your not so friendly spook decides to address what he sees as the bigger threat. He shimmers and flickers and then he's gone. You simultaneously lunge for your weapon and yell out to Sam.

"He's headed your way! Keep looking, I'm coming!" And with that you're up and out of the kitchen as fast as you can, ignoring the sharp stabbing pains at the base of your spine.

For once things seem to be going your way. Mrs Harrison couldn't afford a big trailer so it only takes you a matter of seconds to reach Sam. He's holding his own with Charlie but he looks like he could do with some help. You level your gun with Charlie's head and wonder if you can make the shot without hitting Sam at the same time. You were trained well and your aim is up there with the best. But Sam and Charlie won't stand still. They're doing a bizarre dance around each other. Sam is at the door to the bedroom and Charlie is just inside, blocking the way. It's obvious he doesn't want either of you in there, a sure sign there's part of him kept locked away in there. There's only one thing for it.

"Sam! Drop!" Years of training pay off in an instant. Without question or hesitation Sam drops to the floor just as you fire off a shot. The salt round in your gun dissipates Charlie immediately and Sam is in the bedroom before you can reload. You know the salt won't keep him at bay for long but hopefully you'll only need a few minutes. Quick as you can, you join Sam in the hunt.

You were right. Charlie takes only a minute to regroup and here he is again, meaning business this time. He's clearly decided that he can deal with you later and he's advancing frighteningly fast on your brother. Who has his back turned. Who is trusting you to watch his six. Who has no idea what's coming.

You watch in horror as Sam's feet leave the floor and for a moment it seems like he's levitating above the dresser. Then, with unerring accuracy, Charlie flings him towards you. He could be playing darts for all the concern he's showing. Then you're on the floor and Sam is crushing you from above. Your back is screaming in protest but all you're bothered about is Sam. He groans and rolls off you and then stops, lying still on the floor next to you, breathing heavily.

Keeping one eye on Charlie, who is standing there, waiting for your next move, you nudge Sam with your elbow. He responds with a corresponding dig in your ribs and a muffled 'gerroff' which, whilst not the most eloquent he's ever been, is music to your ears. You push yourself up onto your knees and glare at Charlie.

"You're really becoming a pain in my ass, you know." He just watches you. It's becoming a tad unnerving. You wish you'd managed to hold on to your shotgun but Sam's not a little boy anymore and when something that size collides with you, you know about it. You spy it lying out of your reach but Sam could easily get to it. If only he would start to pay attention. You hope Sam has realised this as well. It would make the next few minutes a lot more worthwhile. You turn your head briefly to Sam and a little jolt of shock spirals through you when you see him watching you as though his life depended on it. It's all there in his eyes. He can read you like a book and all it takes is one eyebrow raised for a fraction of a second, too quick for Charlie to have seen it. He's on board now and you relax, just a little.

"Hey, Charlie," you taunt him as you climb painfully to your feet, "what is it with you?" You're groping around in your pocket in a vain effort to locate something that might help you. It's surprising what you find in there sometimes. You have Charlie's full attention now and that's what you were aiming for. Hopefully Sam is busy edging his way to the shotgun, ready to blast Charlie out of existence, if only for a little while.

Charlie tilts his head and smiles at you. And doesn't that just send chills down your spine. You can't help a backward glance at Sam. He's raised himself on to his elbows and is eyeing the gun cautiously. You know he's biding his time, doesn't want to tip Charlie off to what he's up to.

You advance slowly on the spectre in front of you, hands raised in surrender. "Charlie, help me understand you here, man? We just want to help you." It's another damned lie and you all know it. The only help you're offering is to send him back to hell, or wherever. But as long as it stops him from flinging you around like a ragdoll long enough for Sam to get to the gun you'll go with it.

Charlie doesn't move, doesn't say anything. If he sees what your brother is up to, he doesn't let on. You think you might just get away with this when he raises one hand and your forward motion is halted. Your skin tingles mildly and it's an odd sensation. You want to turn your head to check on Sam but Charlie won't let you. He won't let you move at all. And now you're thinking you may have pissed him off a little too much because your chest is starting to constrict and it's getting hard to breathe properly. He's taken your voice too. No matter how much you want to call out to Sam you can't get more than a gentle huff out past your lips. You hope Sam is alert to your situation. It can't take him this long to get the gun, surely?

Then there's a loud blast and the whistle of rock salt flying past your ears. Sam's aim is as true as ever and you drop to the floor as Charlie vanishes, sent on his way temporarily at least. Heaving in great gulps of air you roll on to your back and wave your arm towards the bedroom. Sam shakes his head at you.

"Go find it, Dean. I'll hold him off." He waves the gun at you and you can see the logic in his reasoning. Thing is, you meant to hold him off and look how well that turned out for you. Sam's determined though so you pull yourself up and head into the bedroom.

Sam seemed to think you're looking for baby teeth but you're not leaving anything to chance. Anything that even vaguely resembles a human part whether it be hair, teeth or even finger nail clippings, you're taking them and torching them. Mrs Harrison is dead so neatness isn't a concern of yours. By the time anyone finds her you'll be long gone. You rip the drawers out of her dressing table and empty them on the floor. Make up, jewellery, hairbrushes and hair rollers. Everything a woman could possibly need is on display but you can't see anything to keep Charlie here.

Behind you, you hear Sam let loose with another round of rock salt and you assume Charlie's back. You thank god that Sam's doing a better job than you did. And then you spot it. Mixed up in all the jewellery is a simple gold chain with a pendant hanging from it. You pick it up for closer inspection and, jeez, doesn't that just turn your stomach. She had a tooth set in glass teardrop. You fumble in your pocket for your lighter as Charlie shows up again.

Sam must be reloading because there's no immediate gunshot. You're not going to risk losing the tooth now you've found it so you slip it into your pocket as you whirl around to confront Charlie. He looks a little pissed with you and it would appear he was a good pitcher in his younger years. The first vase he hurls at you catches you by surprise. You don't quite make it out of the way and it glances off the side of your head. It hurts like a bitch and you have to shake your head to clear your vision. The second vase, you're ready for it. You wish Sam would hurry the hell up and get that gun sorted as you cower behind the bed. The vase smashes into the wall behind you, showering you with fragments of china. You absently find yourself wondering if it was a favourite of Mrs Harrison's.

You pay for your inattention as Charlie finds a large hardback book that his mother obviously considered light bedtime reading. The corner catches you hard on your shoulder and your arm is instantly numb from there down. You're cursing Sam under your breath when the shotgun finally rings out again and Charlie dissipates once more.

Sam appears in the doorway, eyes shooting all round the room until he spies you curled up between the bed and the wall. You guess you must look a little the worse for wear because Sam's face instantly transforms into a picture of concern and worry.

"Hey, dude. You okay?" he asks. It's clear to both of you that you've had better days but, on balance, you've had a lot worse too. You nod your head and hold out the necklace to him.

"I got it. We need to burn this thing, now."

Sam takes it from you and grimaces. "She really wore this?" he asks you. All you can do is raise your eyebrows and wave Sam out of the room

"Go burn it before Charlie gets back," you order him. Sam's always been good at following orders, you muse, even though he sometimes has trouble accepting them from certain people. He's out of the door almost before you've got up from the floor to follow.

In the back yard Sam hands over the shotgun as he crushes the glass teardrop beneath his heel. You stand watch, vigilantly, as he salts the remains and douses it in lighter fuel. As he lights the match in his hand, Charlie shimmers into life behind him. He's too late though and, as the tooth disintegrates into ash, Charlie follows suit. Sam looks at you and you meet his eye steadily, grinning. You're beginning to feel the effects of Charlie's efforts to stop you and you could really do with a cold beer. You don't even care what time it is.


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

Sam insisted you find a bar a long way from town. He seems to think there might be repercussions but the only repercussion you can think of is that phone call he insisted on making as you left Mrs Harrison's trailer. Apparently it's unseemly to leave a dead woman on her bathroom floor when there's no good reason for it. He asked how you would feel if she was your mother. Which was pushing it a bit, even for Sam.

So here you are, your complete life in the trunk of the Impala, again, on the road. You're looking for the first bar you can find. Sam wants to keep going. He doesn't say as much but you've been travelling with him for long enough to know the signs. The way he's slumped in the seat, gazing out of the window. The way there's no conversation, not even the odd passing comment. You've given up trying to talk and your music is on loud enough to wake the dead, excuse the expression.

You're pretty sure he's going over things in his head and this whole business with Charlie? You think it's brought up memories he thought he'd left behind in Stanford. You know there's going to be a conversation about the whole who left who business that Charlie picked up on, or thought he picked up on, anyway. You know, deep down, there are still issues left over here. You can't remember if you mentioned Callum to your brother or not but you think now isn't the time to bring him up. You're reluctant to admit it, even to yourself, but Callum needs to be sorted out. Okay, so he wasn't hurting anyone but the guy deserves a bit of peace now he's dead.

You spot a bikers' bar up ahead and pull in, ignoring the look Sam's giving you. You want a beer and Sam needs to chill a bit here. You don't know what's got into him since you said goodbye to Charlie. You thought the case was pretty well wrapped up. So there are a few loose ends but considering other things you've walked away from, this is a clean case.

"C'mon Sam," you pull him from his thoughts with a gentle slap on the shoulder. He glares at you, but there's no malice there. Sighing exaggeratedly, he climbs out of the car and follows you into the bar.

You do your normal safety checks, entrances, exits, clientele, and it's all good. You're not expecting trouble but it never hurts to be prepared. You reckon you could hustle a couple of hundred dollars here but one look at Sam and that idea flies out of the window. You push him in the direction of a corner table and, once you're happy he's settled, you head to the bar.

By the time you get to the table with the beer Sam is playing with a sticky beer mat, flipping it over and over and over. When you put the bottles on the table in front of him he looks up, almost surprised to see you there. You settle yourself opposite him and study him for a few seconds.

"What's up with you?"

"Nothing," he sighs and you know it's not 'nothing'. 'Nothing' doesn't sit there flipping beer mats. You just raise your eyebrows at him, sceptically.

"Nothing?" and then you stop. You can play the waiting game and Sam's the talker anyway. Sure enough, it takes about two minutes for him to take a deep breath and start talking, albeit he's off to a shaky start.

"It's just that…Charlie and Callum and Martin…they all thought they had the perfect relationship. But they didn't. And they didn't know." He stops and looks at you so intently you have to resist the urge to squirm. "What if there's no such thing, Dean? What if …" and he trails off.

You're his big brother. It's your job to know what's going on inside that head of his. You know he's thinking of Jessica. He's doubting whether that was the real thing now and, although you only met her once, you know she was the one for him. This job has just shaken his faith in human relationships and you can understand that. You didn't really have any faith in them to start with but Sam? He needs to know there's a point to all this.

"Sam," you start, hesitatingly putting a hand over his, stilling that damned beer mat's trajectory. "What you had, with Jessica, you can't compare that to this." You force him to meet your eye and you wonder if he believes you.

"Charlie probably thought that," he tells you but he's wavering now.

"Alice was a cold hearted bitch. And who knows what Melinda and Christine were up to behind closed doors. I'll tell you something though, that Christine? I bet she had them queuing up at the door." You shake your head as you recall the lovely Christine, although now she's not looking so good in the cold light of day. "Jessica was 100% yours. She would never, ever have cheated on you. Why would she?" You hate these heart to heart talks but, in for a penny, in for a pound. "Look at you, Sam. You're the perfect catch…or were, until I came along again." And there's that little bit of guilt again. You've been trying to ignore it for months now but every so often it raises its little head and digs you in the ribs.

Sam is smiling now anyway, so you've accomplished something with this little chat. He's also miles away, lost in his own memories. You pull your hand away, belatedly realising it's still resting on Sam's, and take a long swig of your beer. It's cold and refreshing and just what the doctor ordered. You sit back and, tilting your head to one side, regard Sam for a few more minutes before downing the rest of your beer. You're still puzzled by Charlie's decision to rescue you. You both said it, Sam's not a cheater. That's your job, love 'em and leave 'em, but Charlie saw something in your relationship that made him think otherwise. You could sit here till judgement day and still not understand Charlie's reasoning.

But Sam's obviously been thinking about it too. You can almost pinpoint the exact moment he snaps out of his reverie and comes back to you. It's his eyes. You can always tell more about how Sammy's feeling and what he's thinking by his eyes than by what he says. It's a family thing, he does it to you too. More, probably.

"Hey, Dean? Do you think Charlie … related … to you?" Sam picks up his beer and takes a long pull on it, looking at you over the bottle.

"I don't know what Charlie related to, dude, but he's gone and that's all I care about," you tell him, ordering another round of beers off the waitress hovering in the background.

"I think he did," Sam refuses to drop this. "He thought he was saving people…"

"Hey!" you interrupt, "I don't _think_ I'm saving people. I _am_ saving people."

"That's not what I meant. I think he saw himself in you and then when he thought we were together … he didn't want you to go through what he did. I don't think it was about me at all. It was about his misguided logic." He pauses, and you wonder if he's giving his brain time to catch up with his mouth. "Although…" and he trails off again.

You wonder if you've lost him again but give him the benefit of the doubt while the waitress delivers your fresh beers. You flash her one of your trademark smiles and watch the blush rise on her face with satisfaction. Maybe, if Sam's not in too much of a rush, you might follow up on that later. She scurries back to the bar but you notice she throws a backward glance in your direction. You catch her eye and wink at her. Yep – later, she's yours.

But for now, your main concern is Sam's continuing silence. This calls for a bit of prompting because he's clearly got something on his mind.

"Although what, Sam?"

"I did leave you."

"What? When?" Okay, that's got you. You weren't expecting that.

"Stanford," he says, as if that explains everything. Which to him it obviously does.

"Sam." You take a swig of beer, hoping that didn't come out as much a whine as it did in your head. You've had this argument over and over again. You really thought you'd seen the back of it last time out.

"No, think about it, Dean." Sam's not going to let you get a word in so you may as well strap in for the ride. "We were together, a family unit. We depended on each other, you depended on me to be there to look out for you. And I left. I went away and abandoned you. And Dad. And that's all the criteria Charlie needed to justify his actions. As far as he was concerned, you were the spurned party in all of that. I didn't cheat but I did leave you. And I did hurt you."

You can't deny the logic in what he's saying and, for once, he's not trying to apologise or validate what he did. And yes, it did hurt when he left. You'll always remember that last fight with Dad, how you thought they were going to come to blows, how empty the place felt for days afterwards, how empty you felt. But that's all history now and, much as you hate to dredge up the past, you think Sam's right.

"Well, whatever his reasons, he's gone now and we're both here still. One to the Winchesters." You grin at Sam, signifying that this conversation is over. He smiles back at you and looks to the waitress you had your eye on earlier.

"So, you want me to lay low for a while?" he asks you with a smirk. You think about it seriously but then a thought strikes you.

"Damn! Callum!"

"Callum?" Sam's confused and it strikes you that he doesn't know that Charlie wasn't the only one hanging around.

"He was in the jewellery store when I went looking for you."

"Why?"

"Who knows, Sam? But we can't leave him there. God knows what he'll do." You don't think he'll do anything but you hate to leave a job undone. "Should be a simple salt and burn though. Right?" You look hopefully at your brother. He's the one who stores all this useless information in his head and you can almost see him mentally flicking through the files in his brain. You're relieved when he nods, slowly.

"Yeah. Christine said he was buried in the town cemetery. We can take care of him tonight."

"Good. Well, maybe later I'll come back here. Just for, y'know…" and judging by the look on Sammy's face?

Yep - he knows.

* * *


End file.
